UC-NRLF 


MDS 


WEST  IS  WEST 

EUGENE  MANLOVE  RHODES 


THE  NEIGHBOR   STARS  BENT    LOW  TO   KISS  THE   HILLS 


WEST    Is    WEST 


BY 

EUGENE  MANLOVE  RHODES 

AUTHOR  OF 

"GOOD  MEN  AND  TRUE," 
"THE  DESIRE  OF  THE  MOTH,"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 
HARVEY  DUNN 


i 

\* 


New  York 
THE  H.  K.  FLY  COMPANY 

Publishers 


Copyright,    1917,    by 
TOE  .H.    K.    FLY   COMPANY 


/f/7 


'Morning  on  the  Malibu 

where  once  we  used  to  ride" 


M22120 


CONTENTS 


PROLOGUE 


CHAPTER 

PAGE 

I. 

The  Keeper  of  the  Gates. 

11 

II. 

Beyond  the  Desert    .... 

13 

III. 

Pictured   Rock            .... 

20 

IV. 

Good-By             

28 

V. 

Skullspring        ..... 

32 

VI. 

No  Dwelling  More  on  Sea  or  Shore  . 

39 

ONCE  UPON  A  TIME 

I. 

The  Long  Shift         .... 

4,3 

II. 

Cheerful  Land           .... 

54 

III. 

Malibu  Flat                .... 

66 

IV. 

Barnaby  Bright          .... 

77 

V. 

Fuentes      

93 

VI. 

Pursuit  of   Happiness 

.     101 

THE  SPRING  DRIVE 

VII. 

Return  of  the  Native         .         a 

.     109 

VIII. 

116 

IX. 

"Above  All  Wisdom  and  All  Subtlety" 

.      121 

X. 

The  Cutting  Ground 

.      126 

XI. 

The  Night  Guard       .... 

.      132 

XII. 

Bell-the-Cat       

.  .  136 

THE  FOOL'S  HEART 

XIII. 

Double-Dare      ..... 

.      145 

XIV. 

Chicken-Hearted        .... 

.      151 

XV. 

A  Knocking  at  the  Gate     . 

.      155 

XVI. 

The  Traitor       

.      160 

XVII. 

Keough  Opens  a  Door 

.      164 

vii 

Vlll 


CONTENTS 


CROOKNOSE 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVIII.     Pass  of  the  North 169 

XIX.     The  Dream-Shop 173 

XX.  Chips  That  Pass  in  the  Night    .         .         .179 

XXI.  Crooknose    Represents        .         .         .         .187 

DICK 

XXII.  Privates  of  Industry           ....     191 

XXIII.  How  Dick  Came  to  San  Clemente       .         .     198 

XXIV.  Land   of   Afternoon            ....     206 

XXV.  Early  History  of  a  Dollar         .         .         .211 

XXVI.     Tinted  News 220 

XXVII.     Men  of  Harlech 227 

THE  BELLS  OF  ST.  CLEMENS 

XXVIII.  Little  Black  Toodles           ....     233 

XXIX.     Forgive 238 

XXX.  Face  Up     .                            ....     2i4 

XXXI.     Sale  or  Barter 24-9 

XXXII.  Letter  of  the  Contract       ....     253 

XXXIII.     You  Never  Can  Tell 260 

XXXIV.  Meddling  of  Mr.  Breen     ....     26 1 

XXXV.     Robin's   Not  Here 267 

XXXVI.     Money  Talks 272 

OVER  THE  MALIBU 

XXXVII.  The  Enchanted  Valley       .         .         .         .274 

XXXVIII.     Wizard  of  Finance 281 

XXXIX.  "If  Anthony  Be  Well  Remembered  Yet"     .     287 

XL.     The  Arbitrator 294 

XLL  The  Witch  Hills                                                300 


PROLOGUE 

THE  HAND  OF  THE  POTTER 

After  a  momentary  Silence  spake 
A  Vessel  of  a  more  ungainly  make: 
"They  sneer  at  me  for  learning  all  awry — 
What!   Did  the  Hand  then  of  the  Potter  shake?" 


WEST  IS  WEST 


THE    KEEPER    OF    THE    GATL 

FALL  came  early  to  the  hills;  a  fall  alien  and  strange  to 
the  desert.  Fifty  years  gone,  the  year  of  Valverde  and 
Glorieta,  even  such  a  misty  and  sunless  September  came  last 
to  the  San  Quentin  country — yes,  and  strange  flowers  sprang 
up  overnight,  bright-glowing,  nameless  and  unknown  to  any 
man.  Sefior,  I  have  ridden  across  this  bare  desert  when  the 
air  was  drowsy  with  sweetness;  stirrup  deep  all  day  in  won 
drous  blossoms,  snow-white,  blue  and  purple,  golden,  fire-red, 
nameless. — So  quavered  Don  Apolonio,  keeper  of  the  well  at 
the  gate  of  the  desert. 

What  does  the  Sefior  think?  Will  that  wild  beauty  come 
again  to  San  Quentin?  Have  those  seeds  slept  in  the  blis 
tered  earth  for  fifty  years,  safe,  unimpatient,  waiting  for  this 
year  of  many  rains?  Perhaps. 

Assuredly,  the  Sefior  may  buy  the  sorrel  at  the  price  he 
names,  and  I  will  do  according  to  his  word  for  this  dark  one 
that  he  leaves  behind. — Red  gold,  broad  pieces — right!  Now 
is  Alizan  thine.  A  good  horse:  but  the  price  is  a  great  price. 
Deal  justly  with  him,  Sefior.  Ask  him  not  for  great  speed, 
for  that  gift  he  lacks.  A  great  heart,  toughness,  courage — 
these  are  Alizan's,  and  he  will  do  you  good  service. 

Will  not  the  Senor  rest  until  the  morrow  before  he  crosses 
the  plains  of  San  Quentin?  He  will  be  welcome.  No?  The 
Sefior  is  in  haste,  perhaps.  Food,  then?  A  bit  in  hand  the 
while:  tortillas  and  jerky  in  your  saddle-bag,  for  the  night 
camp.  There  will  be  water  in  pools  by  the  wayside. 

Nay,  you  are  welcome,  Sefior.  Nay,  I  have  no  more  fresh 
horses  in  the  pasture.  Nay,  none  will  call  me  to  question  in 
the  matter  of  Alizan.  I  do  what  I  will  with  mine  own.  I  am 

11 


12  WEST    IS   WEST 

the  Keeper  of  the  Gate.  Fifty  and  four  years  have  I  kept  the 
gate,  selling  water  and  food  at  a  price,  giving  freely  of  water 
and  food  to  those  who  lacked  silver.  Whither  they  go,  whence 
they  come  and  why — it  is  not  my  affair.  Bethink  you,  Senor, 
had  I  sought  to  stay  such  as  pass  on  to  the  waste  places — 
something  swiftly — I  had  not  kept  the  gate  fifty  years,  nor 
four.  Another  had  sat  in  my  stead,  long  since.  Farewell  then, 
Senor- -go  wich  God! 

Now,  thou  very  tired  horse  and  disconsolate,  I  am  to  rub 
thee  with  care,  and  give  thee  water  sparingly,  abundant  feed 
and  soft  litter — yes  and  to  cheer  thee  with  kind  words.  An 
ill-favored  Senor,  that:  yet  he  charged  me  to  speak  comfort 
able  words  to  you.  Ho!  How  art  thou  caked  with  mire, 
Droophead !  Without  doubt  that  Senor  was  in  haste. 


II 


BEYOND    THE    DESERT 

MACGREGOR  was  in  haste.  He  pressed  forward  in  a  close, 
fine  rain.  A  huge  and  graceless  hulk  of  a  man,  he  rode  craft 
ily,  a  brisk  jog,  a  brisk  walk;  where  the  trail  was  steep,  he 
slipped  from  the  saddle  and  led  the  way  to  the  next  smooth 
bit. 

Hard  by  the  head  of  the  pass,  where  the  peaks  of  San 
Quentin — monstrous,  exaggerated,  fantastic — frowned  through 
fog  and  mist,  he  paused  on  a  jutting  shoulder  in  a  brief  lull 
between  showers.  The  night  drew  near.  The  fog  lifted  for 
a  space  as  a  gust  of  wind  whipped  between  the  hills:  far 
behind  and  below  there  was  a  glimpse  of  toiling  horsemen,  a 
black  wavering  line  where  the  trail  clung  to  the  hillside. 

MacGregor  lifted  the  heavy  brows  that  pent  his  piggy  little 
red  eyes.  His  face  was  a  large  red  face,  heavy,  square, 
coarse-featured,  stubbly.  It  now  expressed  no  emotion.  Un 
hurriedly,  he  took  up  a  long  thirty-forty  from  the  sling  below 
the  stirrup  leather,  raised  the  sights  high,  and  dropped  two 
bullets  in  the  trail  before  the  advancing  party.  They  shrank 
back  to  a  huddling  clump.  The  mist  shut  down. 

Under  shelter  of  his  long  slicker,  he  wiped  the  rifle  care 
fully  and  returned  it  to  the  scabbard.  "Persons  of  no  expe 
rience,"  he  grumbled.  "They  ride  with  small  caution  for  a 
country  of  boulders  and  such-like  cover.  If  the  half  o'  them 
had  stayed  behind  at  yonder  well  and  the  best  few  followed, 
each  with  a  led  horse,  they  might  well  ha*  caught  me  oop  ere 
I  could  win  across  yonder  weary  plain.  No  judgment  at  all!" 

The  critic  clicked  his  teeth  disparagingly  as  he  remounted. 

"  'Tis  plain  I  have  naught  to  fear  from  these  gentry  for  all 
the  heavy  weight  this  red  horse  of  mine  must  carry.  For 
they  will  think  twice  and  again  at  each  bend  and  rockfall. 

13 


14  WEST    IS    WEST 

Aweel — I  hae  seen  worse  days.  Thanks  to  this  good  rain,  I 
needna  fear  the  desert  either  for  mysel'  or  the  beastie. 
Hunger  and  great  weariness,  pain  and  jostling  death,  these  I 
can  make  shift  to  bear — but  against  naked  thirst  no  man  can 
strive  for  long — But  beyont  the  desert?  Ay,  there's  the  kittle 
bit.  There's  a  telephone  line  awa'  to  the  north,  and  if  the  good 
folk  of  Datil  be  at  all  of  enterprising  mind,  'tis  like  I  shall 
hear  tidings." 

Dawn  found  him  beyond  the  desert,  breasting  the  long 
slow  ridges  beneath  the  wooded  mountain  of  the  Datils.  The 
storm  was  passed  away.  Behind,  the  far  peaks  of  San 
Quentin  fluttered  on  the  horizon,  dream-pale ;  and  then,  in  one 
swift  moment,  flamed  at  a  touch  of  sudden  sun,  radiant  and 
rejoicing,  sharp  against  a  clean-washed  sky.  The  desert 
brimmed  with  a  golden  flood  of  light,  a  flood  which  rolled 
eastward  across  the  level,  to  check  and  break  and  foam 
against  the  dense,  cool  shadow  of  the  Datil  Range.  So  dense 
and  so  black  was  that  shadow  that  the  rambling  building  of 
the  C  L  A  ranch  scarce  bulked  blacker:  hardly  to  be  seen, 
save  for  a  thin  wisp  of  wood  smoke  that  feathered  in  the  wind 
less  air. 

"Ay,"  said  the  horseman.  "Now  the  pot  boils.  And  indeed 
I  am  wondering  if  my  name  is  in  that  pot.  For  here  comes 
one  at  a  hard  gallop — wrangling  horses,  belike.  And  now  he 
sees  me  and  swerves  this  way.  Truly,  I  am  very  desirous  that 
this  man  may  be  Mundy  himself.  I  would  ever  like  best  to 
deal  with  principals — and  Mundy  is  reputed  a  man  of  parts. 
Be  it  Clay  Mundy  or  another,  yon  bit  wire  has  gien  him  word 
and  warning  to  mark  who  comes  this  way.  I  must  e'en  call 
science  to  my  own  employ.  Hullo,  Central!  .  .  .  Hullo! 
Give  me  Spunk,  please.  .  .  .  Hullo,,  Spunk.  MacGregor, 
speaking.  Spunk,  I  am  now  come  to  a  verra  strait  place, 
and  I  would  be  extremely  blithe  to  hae  your  company.  For  to 
deal  plainly  wi*  you,  my  neck  is  set  on  the  venture,  no  less 
...  I  am  obligit  to  you.  Ye  hae  aye  been  dependable.  See 
if  you  canna  bring  Common-sense  wi'  you.  Hullo,  Central ! 
Gimme  Brains.  .  .  .  What's  that?  No  answer?  Try  again, 
Central,  gin  ye  please.  The  affair  is  verra  urgent." 

The  oncoming  rider  slowed  down:  MacGregor  turned  to 
meet  him,  his  two  hands  resting  on  the  saddle  horn. 


BEYOND    THE    DESERT  15 

"  'Tis  Mundy's  self,  thanks  be,"  he  muttered.  "Now,  do 
you  twa  walk  cannily,  Spunk  and  Common-sense.  Here  is 
the  narrow  bit.  Aha,  Brains !  Are  ye  there  at  the  last  of  it? 
That's  weel !  I  shall  need  you!" 

He  rode  on  at  a  walk.     The  riders  drew  abreast. 

"Hands  up,  you!"  Mundy's  gun  was  drawn  and  leveled 
with  incredible  swiftness. 

MacGregor's  hands  did  not  move  from  the  saddle  horn:  he 
leaned  on  them  easily.  "And  that  is  no  just  what  ye  might 
call  a  ceevil  greeting,  Mister  Mundy.  Ye  give  me  but  a  queer 
idea  of  your  hospitality.  Many,  ye  think  puirly !  Do  ye  see 
this  rifle  under  my  knee  ?  Thirty- forty,  smokeless — and  had  I 
meant  ye  ill,  it  was  but  stepping  behind  a  bit  bush  to  tumble 
you  from  the  saddle  or  e'er  ye  clapped  eyes  on  me." 

"You  have  my  name,  I  see,"  said  Mundy.  "And  there  is 
certainly  some  truth  in  your  last  saying.  You  might  have 
taken  a  pot  shot  at  me  from  ambush,  easy  enough.  Guess 
you  didn't  know  we  were  expecting  you.  Unless  all  signs  fail, 
you  are  fresh  from  the  loot  of  Luna.  Now  I've  had  about 
enough  nonsense  from  you.  Stick  up  those  hands  or  I'll  blow 
you  into  eternity." 

"And  that  is  a  foolish  obsairve,"  said  MacGregor,  com 
posedly.  '  'Into  eternity !'  says  he !  Man,  I  wonder  at  ye ! 
We're  in  eternity  just  noo — every  minute  of  it — as  much  as 
we  e'er  shall  be.  For  the  ambush,  you  do  me  great  wrong. 
I  was  well  knowing  to  yon  mischief-making  telephone — but 
I  took  my  chance  of  finding  you  a  man  of  sense.  For  my 
hands,  they  are  very  well  where  they  are.  You  have  me 
covered — what  more  would  you  wish?  I  have  conscientious 
scruples  aboot  this  hands  up  business.  It  is  undeegnified  in 
the  highest  degree.  Man,  theenk  ye  I  have  nae  self-luve  at 
all !  Hands  up  might  be  all  verra  weel  for  a  slim  young  spark 
like  you,  wi'  looks  and  grace  to  bear  it  off  with.  But  me,  wi' 
my  years  and  the  hulking  carcass  of  me,  in  such  a  bairnly 
play — man,  I  should  look  just  reedeeculous !  The  thing  can- 
nae  be  done." 

"Very  well.  I  am  coming  to  get  your  gun.  Keep  your 
hands  on  the  saddle  horn.  I  have  you  covered,  and  if  you 
crook  a  finger,  I'll  crook  mine." 

"  'Tis  early  yet  in  the  day,  Mr.  Mundy."    MacGregor  held 


16  WEST    IS   WEST 

the  same  attitude  and  the  same  unmoved  composure.  "Dinna 
be  hasty  in  closing  in  upon  me.  I  was  thinking  to  propose  a 
compromise." 

"A  compromise?  And  me  with  finger  on  trigger — me  that 
could  hit  you  blindfolded?" 

"Nae  doot  of  it  at  all.  I  am  well  acquaint  wi'  you  by 
repute.  Ye  have  the  name  of  a  man  of  speerit  and  of  one 
skilly  wi'  his  gun  and  unco'  swift  to  the  back  o'  that.  My 
self,  I  am  slow  on  the  draw.  'Tis  lamentable,  but  I  must 
needs  admit  it.  I  am  no  what  ye  might  ca'  preceesly  neemble 
of  body  or  of  mind — but,  man!  if  I'm  slow,  I'm  extrordinary 
eefeecient!  If  you  crook  that  finger  you  are  speaking  of,  I  am 
thinking  the  two  of  us  may  miss  the  breakfast  cooking  yonder. 
For  myself,  I  am  free  to  say  I  had  far  liefer  crook  elbows  wi' 
you  over  a  thick  beefsteak." 

"Fool !  I  can  shoot  you  three  times  before  you  get  to  your 
gun." 

"Nae  doot,  nae  doot,"  said  MacGregor  pacifically.  "It 
has  been  done — yet  here  am  I,  little  the  waur  o't.  Come, 
Mr.  Mundy,  I  must  deal  plainly  wi'  you.  Long  ago,  that 
place  where  your  ranch  is  was  pointit  oot  to  me  by  yon 
square-capped  peak  behind  for  landmark — and  I  came  here 
the  noo  rather  than  to  any  ither  spot  round  aboot  this  wide 
circle  of  the  plains  of  San  Quentin,  preceesly  because  ye  are 
bespoken  a  man  of  parts  and  experience — and  thereby  the 
better  able  to  judge  weel  and  deal  wisely  with  another  man 
as  good  as  yoursel'." 

"Sure  of  that?" 

"Positeeve.  Now,  understand  me  weel.  I  am  laying  no 
traps  to  tempt  your  eye  to  rove — so  dinna  look,  but  e'en  take 
my  word  for  it.  But  gin  ye  were  free  to  look  ye  wad  see, 
as  I  did  just  ere  you  came,  some  ten-twelve  black  specks  com 
ing  this  way  ahindt  me  on  the  plain,  a  long  hour  back,  or 
near  two — and  ye  may  draw  your  ain  conclusions  thereby.  To 
speak  the  plain  truth,  I  doot  they  mean  me  nae  guid  at  a'." 

"I  should  conclude  that  this  was  your  unlucky  day.  Mr. 
Whatever-your-name-is.  Quite  aside  from  these  gentlemen 
behind,  or  from  myself — and  you  may  possibly  be  underrat 
ing  me — the  whole  country  east  of  here  is  warned  by  tele 
phone.  Heavy,  heavy  hangs  over  your  head !" 


BEYOND    THE    DESERT  17 

"I  am  a  little  struck  wi*  that  circumstance  myself,"  said 
MacGregor  simply.  "Ye  see  the  seetuation  wi'  great  clear 
ness,  Mr.  Mundy.  But  I  have  seen  worse  days  and  have 
good  hopes  to  come  fairly  off  from  this  one  yet.  For  if  you 
can  eenstruct  me  in  what  way  I  should  be  any  worse  off  to 
be  shot  by  you  just  now,  than  to  be  hanged  in  a  tow  from  a 
pleasant  juniper  a  little  later,  after  tedious  delays  and  par 
ley-wows,  I  shall  be  the  more  obleegit.  For  then  I  can 
plainly  see  my  way  to  give  myself  up  to  you.  If  you  canna 
do  this,  then  I  shall  expect  ye,  as  a  reasoning  man  yourself, 
to  note  that  ye  can  have  naught  to  gain  by  changing  shots  wi' 
one  who  has  naught  to  lose,  and  to  conseeder  the  proposeetion 
I  mak  to  you — as  I  should  surely  do  and  the  cases  were 
changed." 

"You  put  it  very  attractively  and  I  see  your  point,"  said 
Mundy.  A  slow  smile  lit  up  his  face.  He  put  his  gun  back 
in  the  scabbard.  "Well,  let's  have  it." 

"And  a  verra  guid  choice,  too.  If  it  be  not  askin'  too 
much,  let  us  e'en  be  riding  toward  your  ranch  gate  while  ye 
hear  my  offer,  for  when  the  sun  reaches  here  we  should  be 
seen — and  yonder  weary  bodies  gain  on  us  while  we  stand 
here  daffing." 

They  made  a  strange  contrast:  Mundy,  smooth,  slender  and 
graceful,  black  of  hair  and  eye,  poised,  lithe  and  tense,  a  man 
to  turn  and  look  after:  MacGregor,  stiff,  unwieldy,  awkward, 
gross,  unkempt,  battered,  year-bitten. 

"For  the  first  of  it,  ye  should  know  that  not  one  of  these 
gentry  behind  have  seen  my  face,  the  which  I  kep'  streectly 
covered  durin'  my  brief  stay  in  Luna.  Second,  though  no 
great  matter,  ye  may  care  to  know  that  the  bit  stroke  I  pulled 
off  in  Luna  was  even  less  than  justice.  For  within  year  and 
day  a  good  friend  of  mine  was  there  begowked  and  cozened 
by  that  same  partnership — yes  and  that  wi'  treachery  and 
broken  trust  to  the  back  of  it — of  mair  than  I  regained  for 
him  by  plain  and  open  force  at  noonday.  So  much  for  that 
— though  I  do  not  hold  you  squeamish.  Third,  for  your  own 
self,  it  is  far  known  that  you  and  the  Wyandotte  Company 
and  Steel-foot  Morgan  are  not  agreeing  verra  well " 

"You  never  heard  that  I've  taken  any  the  worst  of  it,  did 
you?" 


18  WEST    IS    WEST 

"No,  but  that  they  keep  you  weel  occupied.  Also,  that 
hired  warriors  from  the  Tonto  are  to  join  wi'  Webb  of  the 
Wyandotte.  So  hear  me  now.  I  need  nae  ask  of  ye  if  ye 
have  ony  but  discreet  persons  aboot  ye?" 

Mundy  laughed.  "Boys  are  floating  in  the  Malibu  hills 
with  a  pack  outfit.  No  one  at  the  ranch  today  but  Hurley, 
the  water-mason.  He's  all  right." 

"Verra  weel.  Do  you  send  him  away  betimes  on  that 
beastie  atween  your  knees,  and  I  will  be  water-'nason  to  you 
— the  mair  that  I  can  run  your  steam-pump  as  well  as  the 
best,  though  there  will  be  small  need  of  pumps  till  these  rains 
l>e  over.  The  story  will  be  that  the  outlaw-body  passed  by 
night,  unseen,  liftin'  your  night-horse  as  he  flitted,  and  leav- 
in'  this  sorrel  of  mine.  Your  man  Hurley  can  join  your  out 
fit  and  lose  himself.  That  will  be  my  gain,  for  I  shall  be 
blameless  Maxwell,  your  water-mason — and  who  so  eager  to 
run  down  the  runagate  robber  as  he?  And  when  they  see  how 
it  is,  that  their  man  has  got  clean  away,  these  men  from 
Luna  will  know  that  the  jig  is  definitely  up  and  they  will  be 
all  for  the  eating  and  sleeping." 

"Very  pretty,  and  it  can  be  done — since  they  do  not  know 
you,"  agreed  Mundy.  "They  will  not  be  expecting  their  out 
law  to  call  them  in  to  breakfast,  certainly.  But  I  do  not  see 
where  I  am  to  gain  anything." 

"You  are  to  hear,  then,"  said  the  outlaw.  "I  will  praise 
the  bridge  that  carries  me  over,  but  I  will  do  more  too:  I  will 
mend  that  bridge.  I  will  fight  your  battles  with  you  against 
all  comers.  Not  murder,  you  mind,  but  plain  warfare  against 
men  fit  for  war." 

"A  fighting  man,  and  slow  on  the  draw?" 

"I  am  that  same,  both  the  one  and  the  other.  Slow,  I  can 
not  deny  it — slow,  in  compare  with  the  best.  But  man,  I'm 
experienced,  I'm  judgmatical,  and  I'm  fine  on  the  latter  end. 
I'm  a  good  person  to  have  at  your  right  hand  or  your  left. 
Some  way,  I  dinna  prosper  verra  weel  as  chief  man — but  as 
the  next  best,  there  is  none  better  rides  leather." 

"You  come  well  recommended." 

"By  myself,  you  are  meaning?  And  just  that  you  may 
know  the  worth  of  that  recommend,  I  am  telling  ye  that  my 
name  is  no  exactly  Maxwell.  You  have  had  word  of  me, 


BEYOND   THE    DESERT  19 

your  ownself,  in  El  Paso,  where  indeed  I  saw  your  face, 
though  you  saw  not  mine.  And  I  would  have  ye  to  observe, 
Mr.  Mundy,  that  I  keepit  my  name  streectly  to  myself  for 
such  time  as  ye  might  have  taken  the  sound  of  it  as  a  threat, 
and  give  it  to  you  now  only  when  it  comes  mair  as  a  promise. 
So  now  I  offer  you  the  naked  choice,  peace  or  war — and  the 
last  word  is  with  you.  A  hundred  miles  and  twenty,  at  the 
least  of  it,  I  have  now  made  in  sax-and-thirty  hours — and 
blow  high,  blow  low,  I  ride  no  step  beyond  yonder  gate." 

"I  am  decidedly  inclined  toward  peace,"  said  Clay  Mundy, 
smiling  again,  "if  only  to  hear  you  talk.  For  you  talk  con 
vincingly.  My  own  risk  in  the  matter — which  you  have  been 
kind  enough  not  to  mention — also  moves  me  that  way.  And, 
after  all,  your  late  exploit  at  Luna  is  nothing  to  me.  But  as 
to  your  value  in  my  little  range  war — you  forgot  to  mention 
the  name,  you  know." 

"The  name  is  MacGregor." 

"Not  Sandy  MacGregor?     Of  Black  Mountain?" 

"That  same.     Plain  shooting  done  neatly." 

"You're  on,"  said  Clay  Mundy. 

So  MacGregor  became  Maxwell,  and  Mundy's.  The  search 
party  came,  and  swore,  and  slept ;  for  they  were  weary.  None 
mistrusted  Maxwell,  that  kindly  and  capable  cook,  who 
sympathized  so  feelingly  with  them  concerning  the  upness  of 
the  jig.  In  the  seven-up  tournament  organized  after  that  big 
sleep,  Maxwell  won  the  admiration  of  all  and  the  money  of 
most:  and  they  went  home  mingling  praises  of  their  new 
friend  with  execrations  of  the  escaped  outlaw. 


Ill 


PICTURED    ROCK 

"AND  the  herdsman  of  Gerar  did  strive  with  Isaac's  herds 
men,  saying,  The  water  is  ours." 

That  was  at  the  well  Esek.  The  patriarchs  were  always 
quarreling  with  their  neighbors  or  with  each  other  over  wells, 
pasturage  and  other  things — mavericks,  maybe.  Abraham, 
Laban,  Lot,  Isaac,  Jacob — they  led  a  stirring  life,  following 
the  best  grass.  You  ought  to  read  about  them,  sometime. 

It  is  entirely  probable  that  Terah  went  forth  from  Ur  of 
the  Chaldees  either  because  the  grass  was  short  or  because 
he  had  no  friends  on  the  grand  jury. 

Cattlemen  have  not  changed  much  since  then.  They  still 
swing  a  big  loop :  it  is  as  risky  as  ever  to  let  the  stock  out  on 
shares:  and  we  still  have  cattle  wars  wherever  there  is  free 
range,  because  of  the  spirit  so  justly  expressed  by  Farmer 
Jones:  "He  said  he  wasn't  no  land-hog — all  he  wants  is  just 
what  joins  his'n." 

Human  nature  is  the  same  on  the  plains  of  Mamre  or  of 
San  Quentin:  so  there  is  no  new  thing  to  tell  about  the 
Mundy-Morgan  war.  Wrong  and  folly  and  stubborness ; 
small  matter  now  whose  first  the  blame;  this  might  have  been 
a  page  of  history. 

Strong  warriors,  able  leaders,  Ben  "Steel-foot"  Morgan, 
Webb  of  the  Wyandotte  outfit,  and  Clay  Mundy:  sharp  and 
bitter  hate  was  in  their  hearts,  and  the  feud  was  more  savage 
than  the  usual  run  of  cattle  wars :  carried  on  (of  course)  upon 
a  higher  plane  than  any  "civilized"  warfare.  For  there  were 
restrictions,  there  were  limits.  To  rise  up  from  a  man's  table 
and  war  upon  that  man  while  the  taste  of  his  bread  was  still 
sweet  in  your  mouth — such  dealing  would  have  been  un 
speakable  infamy  in  the  San  Quentin  country. 

Again,  you  might  be  unfriends  with  a  man  and  yet  meet 
on  neutral  ground  or  when  each  was  on  his  lawful  occasions, 

20 


PICTURED   ROCK  21 

without  trouble.  It  was  not  the  custom  to  war  without  fresh 
offense,  openly  given.  You  must  not  smile  and  shoot.  You 
must  not  shoot  an  unarmed  man,  and  you  must  not  shoot  an 
unwarned  man.  Here  is  a  nice  distinction,  but  a  clear  one: 
you  might  not  ambush  your  enemy;  but  when  you  fled  and 
your  enemy  followed,  you  might  then  waylay  and  surprise 
without  question  to  your  honor,  for  they  were  presumed  to  be, 
on  their  guard  and  sufficiently  warned.  The  rattlesnake's 
code,  to  warn  before  he  strikes,  no  better:  a  queer,  lop-sided, 
topsy-turvey,  jumbled  and  senseless  code — but  a  code  for  all 
that.  And  it  is  worthy  of  note  that  no  better  standard  has 
ever  been  kept  with  such  faith  as  this  barbarous  code  of  the 
fighting  man. 

Roundup  season  passed  with  no  fresh  outbreak  of  hostil 
ities.  After  the  steer-shipping,  Mr.  Maxwell  had  been  given 
a  mount,  a  rope  and  a  branding  iron,  and  so  turned  loose  to 
learn  the  range.  This  was  equivalent  to  letters  of  Marque 
and  Reprisal. 

Mr.  Maxwell  was  camped  at  Whitewater,  alone.  So  far,  he 
had  passed  a  pleasant  day.  He  had  killed  a  fat  buck  at  day 
break,  when  he  wrangled  horses.  Later,  he  had  ridden 
leisurely  in  nooks  and  corners,  branding  two  of  his  employer's 
calves,  overlooked  by  the  roundup,  two  of  the  Y  calves,  and 
one  long  eared  yearling — a  pleasing  total  of  five  for  the  C 
L  A  tally-book.  So  far  his  services  had  been  confined  to 
such  peaceful  activities  as  these:  the  war  had  languished 
since  the  rains  set  in.  It  was  late  October  now,  and  the 
rains  were  still  falling.  The  desert  was  glorified  with  the 
magic  of  that  belated  spring;  the  flowers  of  old  Apolonio's 
youth  stood  stirrup-high  once  more,  even  as  he  had  hoped 
and  said. 

All  day  it  had  been  cloudy.  While  Mr.  Maxwell  was 
branding  his  maverick  it  began  to  sprinkle;  when  he  turned 
it  loose  the  sprinkle  had  become  rain,  the  clouds  were 
banked  dark  and  sullen  against  the  mountains.  He  wriggled 
into  his  slicker  and  started  for  camp,  but  the  rain  turned  to 
a  blinding  storm  and  he  was  glad  to  turn  his  back  to  its  fury 
and  ride  his  straightest  for  the  next  shelter. 

Pictured  Rock  is  an  overhanging  cliff  of  limestone,  sheltered 
from  three  winds.  Gray  walls  and  creamy  roof  are  close 


22  WEST    IS   WEST 

covered  with  the  weird  picture  writing  of  Apache  and  Navajo, 
a  record  of  the  wars  and  journeys  of  generations. 

As  he  turned  the  bend  in  the  canon,  Maxwell  saw  a  great 
light  glowing  under  Pictured  Rock,  now  veiled  by  the  driving 
sheets  of  rain,  now  beating  out  in  gusts  across  the  murky 
dark,  reflected  and  magnified  by  the  cliff  behind.  Another, 
storm  driven  like  himself,  was  before  him.  He  paused  at  the 
hill- foot  and  shouted: 

"Hullo,  the  house!    Will  your  dog  bite?" 

"Hi!"  It  was  a  startled  voice:  a  slender  figure  in  a  yellow 
slicker  appeared  beside  the  fire.  "Dog's  dead,  poor  fellow — 
starved  to  death !  Come  on  up !" 

The  C  L  A  man  rode  up  the  short  zig-zag  of  the  trail  to 
the  fire-lit  level.  He  took  but  one  glance  and  swept  off  his 
hat,  for  the  face  he  saw  beneath  the  turned  up  sombrero  was 
the  bright  and  sparkling  face  of  a  girl. 

"You  will  be  Miss  Bennie  May  Morgan?  I  saw  you  in 
Magdalena  at  the  steer-shipping." 

"Quite  right.  And  you  are  Mr.  Sandy  Maxwell,  the  new 
warrior  for  Clay  Mundy." 

"Faces  like  ours  are  not  easily  forgot,"  said  Maxwell. 

Miss  Bennie  laughed.  Her  eyes  crinkled  when  she  laughed. 
"I  will  give  you  a  safe-conduct.  Get  down — unless  you  are 
afraid  of  hurting  your  reputation,  that  is."  She  sat  upon  her 
saddle  blankets  where  they  were  spread  before  the  fire,  and 
leaned  back  against  the  saddle. 

The  C  L  A  man  climbed  heavily  down  and  strode  to  the 
fire,  where  he  stood  dripping  and  silent.  The  grinding  of 
boulders  in  the  flooded  canon  rose  loud  and  louder,  swelled 
to  a  steady  ominous  roar  by  the  multitudinous  echoes  of  the 
hills. 

"Well!  How  about  that  lunch?"  demanded  Miss  Bennie 
sharply.  "It's  past  noon." 

"Sorry,  Miss  Morgan,  but  I  have  not  so  much  as  a  crumb. 
And  that  is  a  bad  thing,  for  you  are  far  from  home,  and  who 
knows  when  this  weary  storm  will  be  by?  But  doubtless 
they  will  be  abroad  to  seek  for  you." 

Miss  Bennie  laid  aside  the  hat  and  shook  her  curly  head 
decidedly.  "Not  for  me.  Dad  thinks  I'm  visiting  Effie  at 
the  X  L  and  Effie  thinks  I'm  home  by  this  time.  But  this 
storm  won't  last.  The  sun  will  be  out  by  three.  You'll  see! 


PICTURED   ROCK  23 

And  now,  if  you  please,  since  you  can't  feed  me,  hadn't  you 
better  entertain  me?  Sit  down,  do!" 

"It  is  like  that  I  should  prove  entertaining  for  a  young 
maid,  too!"  said  Maxwell,  carrying  a  flat  stone  to  the  fire 
to  serve  for  a  seat. 

"Oh,  you  never  can  tell!  Suppose,  for  a  starter,  you  tell 
me  what  you  are  thinking  so  busily." 

"I  am  thinking/'  said  Maxwell,  slowly,  "that  you  are  a 
bonnie  lass  and  a  merry  one.  And  I  was  thinking  one  more 
thing,  too.  The  X  L  is  awa'  to  the  southeast  and  the  Morgan 
home  ranch  as  far  to  the  southwest.  Now  what  may  Miss 
Bennie  Morgan  need  of  so  much  northing,  ten  long  miles 
aside  from  the  straight  way,  and  her  friend  Effie  thinking 
she  was  safe  home  and  all?  And  then  I  thought  to  myself, 
the  folk  at  San  Quentin  are  very  quiet  now.  It  is  to  be 
thought  that  the  season  of  great  plenty  has  put  them  in 
better  spunk  with  the  world.  And  it  is  an  ill  thing  that  a  way 
cannot  be  found  to  make  an  end  of  this  brawling  for  good 
and  all.  And,  thinks  I,  the  bonny  Earl  of  Murray  himself 
was  not  more  goodly  to  the  eye  than  Clay  Mundy — and  it  is 
a  great  peety  for  all  concerned  that  Clay  Mundy  is  not 
storm-bound  this  day  at  Picture  Rock,  rather  than  I !" 

"Well !"  Miss  Bennie  gasped  and  laughed  frankly,  blushed 
red,  neck  and  cheek.  "Oh,  you  men!  And  while  you  were 
making  this  up " 

"It  is  what  I  thought,"  said  Maxwell  stoutly.  "Only  I 
was  nae  thinking  words,  d'ye  see?  I  was  just  thinking 
thoughts.  And  it  is  no  verra  easy  to  put  thoughts  into 
words." 

"Well,  then — while  you  were  thinking  all  those  preposter 
ous  thoughts,  I  was  seeing  a  wonderful  picture,  very  much 
like  this  storm,  and  this  cave,  and  this  fire,  and  us.  If  I  were 
a  painter,  this  is  what  I  would  try  to  paint:  a  hill-side  like 
this — so  you  might  feel  what  you  could  not  see,  the  black 
night  and  the  wild  storm.  The  black  night,  and  a  red  fire 
glowing  in  a  cave-mouth,  and  a  wind-bent  tree  close  beside: 
and  by  the  fire  a  man  straining  into  the  night  at  some  unseen 
danger;  a  cave-man,  clad  in  skins,  with  long  matted  hair, 
broad-shouldered,  long-armed,  ferocious,  brutal — but  unafraid. 
He  is  half-crouching,  his  knees  bent  to  spring:  he  is  peering 
under  his  hand :  the  other  hand  clutches  a  knotted  club :  a  dog 


24  WEST    IS   WEST 

strains  beside  his  foot,  snarling  against  the  night,  teeth  bared, 
glaring,  stiff  legs  braced  back,  neck  bristling:  behind  them, 
half-hidden,  shrinking  in  the  shadow — a  woman  and  a  child. 
And  the  name  of  that  picture  would  be  'Home !'  ' 

Maxwell's  heavy  face  lit  up,  his  dull  and  little  eye  gleamed 
with  an  answering  spark,  his  sluggish  blood  thrilled  at  the 
spirit  and  beauty  of  her:  his  voice  rang  with  a  heat  of  frank 
admiration.  "And  that  is  a  brave  thought  you  have  conjured 
up,  too,  and  I  will  be  warrant  you  would  be  unco'  fine  woman 
to  a  cave-man —  though  I'm  judgin'  you  would  be  having  a  bit 
club  of  your  own."  He  paused,  fixed  her  with  a  meditative 
eye,  and  spoke  again  in  a  lighter  tone.  "I  recognize  myself, 
and  the  dog  is  dead,  puir  fellow — starved  to  death,  you  said. 
But  I  would  have  you  observe  that  the  thoughts  of  the  two 
of  us  differed  but  verra  little  when  all  is  said — forbye  it  ran 
in  my  mind  that  a  much  younger  person  was  to  be  cave-man 
to  you.  And  you  gave  me  safe-conduct,  too!  Are  you  to  be 
man-sworn,  then,  and  me  trusting  to  you?" 

"Now  you  are  trying  to  torment  me,"  said  Miss  Bennie, 
briskly.  "I  can't  have  that,  you  know.  Better  give  it  up. 
Roll  a  smoke.  I  know  you  want  to.  The  storm  is  slacking 
already — we  will  be  going  soon." 

"A  pipe,  since  you  are  so  kind,"  said  Maxwell,  fumbling 
for  it. 

"Do  you  admire  your  friend  Clay  Mundy  so  much?"  said 
Miss  Bennie  next,  elbows  on  knees,  chin  in  hands. 

Maxwell  rolled  a  slow  eye  on  her,  and  blew  out  a  cloud 
of  smoke.  "My  employer.  I  did  not  say  friend,  though  if 
I  like  him  no  worse  it  may  come  to  that  yet.  He  has  the 
devil's  own  beauty — which  thing  calls  the  louder  to  me,  mis 
shapen  as  you  see  me.  He  is  a  gallant  horseman,  fame  cries 
him  brave  and  proven.  But  I  am  not  calling  him  friend  yet 
till  I  know  the  heart  of  him.  Fifty-and-five  I  am,  and  I  can 
count  on  the  fingers  of  my  twa  hands  the  names  of  those  I 
have  been  willing  to  call  wholly  friend — forbye  one  of  those 
few  was  my  enemy  to  my  overthrow.  So  you  will  not  be 
taking  Clay  Mundy  to  your  cave  upon  my  say-so  till  I  am 
better  acquaint  wi'  him.  But  dootless  you  know  him  verra 
well  yourself." 

Miss  Bennie  evaded  this  issue.  She  became  suddenly 
gloomy.  "It  is  plain  that  you  are  a  stranger  here,  since  you 


PICTURED   ROCK  25 

talk  so  glibly  of  any  lasting  peace  in  the  San  Quentin.  A 
wicked,  stiff-necked  unreasoning  pack,  they  are — dad  and  all! 
There  has  never  been  anything  but  wrong  and  hate  here,  out 
rage  and  revenge,  and  there  never  will  be.  It  is  enough  to 
make  one  believe  in  the  truth  of  original  sin  and  total 
depravity !" 

"No  truth  at  all!"  cried  Maxwell  warmly.  "Oreeginal  sin 
is  just  merely  a  fact — no  truth  at  a'!  Folks  are  aye  graspin' 
as  some  puir  halflin  fact  and  settin'  it  up  to  be  the  truth.  It 
takes  at  least  three  trees  to  make  a  row,  and  it  needs  at  least 
three  facts  to  make  a  truth.  Mankind  is  blind,  foolish  and 
desperately  wicked — yes,  take  it  from  me  that  am  an  old 
ruffian.  But  mankind  is  also  eencurably  good — wise  and  strong 
and  splendid  and  kindly  and  brave — in  your  time  of  sorrow 
and  danger  you  will  find  it  so — and  there's  another  glaring 
fact  for  you !  With  endless  rain  earth  would  drown,  wi'  end 
less  sun  it  would  be  a  cinder:  look  about  you  now,  see  what 
sun  and  rain  and  evil  and  good  have  wrought  together,  grass 
and  flower  and  bud  and  fruit,  the  bonny  warld  and  the  bonny 
race  o'  men !  World  and  man,  the  machine  Works !  And 
there's  the  third  fact  for  you,  lassie,  and  the  weightiest  fact. 
We  are  a  Going  Concern :  we  pay  a  profit  to  our  Owner !  And 
for  the  truth  behind  these  three  facts,  may  not  this  be  it: 
That  if  we  are  at  once  evil  and  good,  it  is  the  good  God  who 
made  us  that  way,  not  in  sloth,  but  because  He  wanted  us  to 
be  that  way?  It  is  so  I  think.  But  it  is  a  strange  thing  to 
me  that  I  am  most  roundly  abused  for  disrespect  to  the  Maker 
whene'er  I  dare  venture  the  mild  guess  that  perhaps  He  knew 
what  He  was  about!" 

"A  very  fine  sermon,  reverend  sir,  though  I  did  not  get  tne 
text/'  said  Miss  Bennie,  twinkling.  "And  now  if  you  will 
give  me  your  benediction,  I  will  be  on  my  way  soon.  The 
storm  is  breaking.  It  will  clear  as  suddenly  as  it  came  on." 

Maxwell  shook  out  the  saddle  blankets  and  saddled  her 
horse.  "For  the  text,  it  is  Ihis:  "And  God  saw  everything 
that  He  had  made  and  behold  it  was  very  good. — And  I  am 
an  old  fool  as  well  as  old  ruffian,"  he  grumbled,  "for  I  have 
wearied  you." 

"Oh,  no,  you  haven't.  Your  theology  took  my  breath  away, 
rather — that's  all.  It  was  so  very  unexpected." 


26  WEST    IS   WEST 

"Of  course,  I  will  be  seeing  that  you  get  safe  home " 

"You  mustn't.  It  would  only  make  you  a  hard  ride  for 
nothing.  No  need  of  it  at  all.  There  is  time  for  me  to  get 
home  while  the  sun  is  still  an  hour  high." 

"It  doesn't  seem  right,"  protested  Maxwell. 

"Really,  I'd  rather  you  wouldn't,"  said  Miss  Bennie  earn 
estly.  "I  don't  want  to  be  rude,  but  I  am  still —  She  gave 
him  her  eyes  and  blushed  to  her  hair — "I  am  still  .  .  .  north 
of  where  I  should  be,  as  you  so  shrewdly  observed.  And 
your  camp  lies  farther  yet  to  the  north." 

"Good-by,  then,  Miss  Morgan." 

"Good-by,  Mr.  MacGregor." 

He  stared  after  her  as  she  rode  clattering  down  the  steep. 
"MacGregor!"  he  repeated.  "MacGregor,  says  she!  And 
never  a  soul  of  the  San  Quentin  kens  aught  of  the  late  Mac 
Gregor  save  Clay  Mundy's  own  self!  Here  is  news!  Is  she 
so  unco'  chief  wi'  him  as  that,  then?  And  who  told  her 
whaur  my  camp  was;  she  was  glib  to  say  that  she  had  time 
enow  to  go  home  or  sundown — but  she  was  careful  she  didnae 
say  she  was  gaun  there !  Little  lady,  it  is  in  my  mind  that 
you  are  owre  far  north !" 

She  waved  her  hand  gaily;  her  fresh  young  voice  floated 
back  to  him,  lingering,  soft  and  slow: 

He  was  a  braw  gallant. 

And  he  rid  at  the  ring} 
And  the  bonny  Earl  of  Murray 

Oh!  He  might  have  been  a  king. 

He  was  a  braw  gallant, 

And  he  played  at  the  glove; 
rAnd  the  bonny  Earl  of  Murray 

Oh!  He  was  the  Queen's  love! 

Oh!  Lang  may  his  lady 

Luke  owre  the  castle  down. 
Ere  she  see  the  Earl  of  Murray 

Come  sounding  thro'  the  town. 

The  girl  passed  from  sight  down  the  narrow  canon.  Mac- 
Gregor-Maxwell  gave  his  head  a  shaking  then,  to  clear  his 
thoughts,  and  put  foot  to  stirrup.  When  he  came  to  the 
beaten  trail  again,  where  the  horse's  feet  pattered  rhythmically 


PICTURED   ROCK  27 

on   the   firm   ground,    MacGregor  half-sang,   half-crooned,    a 
plaintiff  and  wandering  air: 

Then  I  pray  you  do  not  trust  the  hawk  again, 
The  cruel  hawk  that  mocks  thy  love,  like  me. 

Oh,  alone,  betrayed  and  sad  although  I  leave  thee, 

Yet  the  wandering  traitor  weeps,  poor  love,  for  thee — 

Ay!  Paloma  azull 

"The  de'il  and  his  horns !  Now  why  do  I  sing  such  an  ill- 
omened  and  unchancy  song  as  that?"  He  shook  his  great 
shoulders,  as  if  to  shake  off  a  weight:  he  held  his  cupped 
hand  to  his  mouth.  "Hullo,  Central!  Can  you  get  Brains 
for  me?  .  .  .  Try  again,  please.  .  .  .  Now,  Brains,  you  are 
partly  acquaint  wi'  this  day's  doings.  But  did  you  mark  the 
bonny  blush  of  her  at  the  name  of  Clay  Mundy — and  her  so 
far  from  the  plain  way,  wi'  no  cause  given?  .  .  .  Ye  didna? 
.  .  .  Brains,  you're  but  a  cauld,  feckless,  dusty-dry  thing, 
when  all's  said.  Well  then,  I  am  telling  you  of  it.  And 
what  am  I  to  do  in  such  case  as  that?  ...  A  little  louder, 
please!  .  .  .  Oh!  I  am  to  see  where  Clay  Mundy  rides  this 
day,  if  it  is  any  affair  of  mine — is  that  it?  .  .  .  Surely  it  is 
my  business.  Any  man  is  natural  protector  to  any  woman* 
against  any  man  except  himself.  .  .  .  And  if  he  means  her 
naething  but  good  ?  .  .  .  It  is  what  I  will  know.  And  then  I 
will  be  best  man — and  to  be  best  man  at  this  employ  should) 
be  no  empty  form.  For  indeed  I  think  the  Morgans  are  like 
to  be  little  pleased. 

"Aweel,  Brains,  I  will  e'en  do  your  bidding,  and  I  will 
seek  proof  where  Clay  Mundy  fares  this  day — though  I  tell 
you  plainly  that  I  know  very  well  now.  And  I  scorn  for  a 
slow,  speeritless,  doddering  sluggard — you  and  your  proofs ! 
You  can  but  look  through  a  hole  in  a  stone  wall,  at  the  most 
of  it.  What  are  walls  for  but  to  leap  over — can  you  tell  me 
that?  Show  me  once  a  braw  lass  and  a  high  hard  wall  and  a 
lad  beyond,  and  I  will  show  you  a  place  where  there  shall 
be  a  fine  climbing  done — the  more  when  the  young  folk  are 
so  bold  and  bonny  as  the  twa  of  them  yonder  towards  the 
sunset.  .  .  .  What's  that?  How  do  I  know?  .  .  .  Brains,  I 
wonder  at  ye,  I  fairly  peety  you — and  that's  the  truth  of  it. 
Where  else  should  he  be?" 


IV 

GOOD-BY 

"I  THOUGHT  it  was  you,"  said  Miss  Bennie  May  Morgan. 
"So  I  waited  for  you.  Aren't  you  rather  out  of  your  own 
range,  Mr.  Maxwell?  The  Morgans'll  get  you  if  you  don't 
watch  out!" 

With  elaborate  surprise,  MacGregor  took  his  bearings  from 
the  distant  circling  hills.  "Why  so  I  am!  I  was  on  my  way 
to  Datil,"  he  explained.  "I  see  now" — he  jerked  a  thumb 
back  over  his  shoulder — "that  I  should  have  ridden  east-like 
this  morning  instead  of  west." 

"It  is  shorter  that  way — and  dryer,"  she  agreed.  "This 
road  to  Datil  is  very  damp  after  you  pass  California." 

"Shall  I  ride  with  you  a  bit  on  your  way?"  said  Mac 
Gregor.  "I  can  still  get  back  to  my  camp  before  sundown. 
Mind  you,  I  am  not  saying  at  all  that  I  shall  go  to  my  camp 
by  that  hour,  but  only  that  there  is  time  enough." 

Then  Miss  Bennie  Morgan  knew  where  she  stood.  She 
flicked  at  her  stirrup  with  a  meditative  quirt.  "Why,  I  said 
something  about  I  like  that  to  you  last  week  at  Pictured 
Rock,  didn't  I?" 

"Very  much  like  that." 

"When  you  got  lost  today,"  said  Miss  Bennie  thoughtfully, 
"I  suppose  you  were  composing  a  sermon?" 

"Why,  no,  I  wasnae.  It  was  like  this.  Clay  Mundy  set  off 
for  Datil  early  this  morning,  you  see,  whilst  I  staid  in  camp, 
shoeing  horses.  He  was  riding  his  Jugador  horse — fine  I  ken 
the  crooked  foot  of  him.  And  when  later  in  the  day  I  came 
upon  the  track  of  that  twisted  hoof,  I  found  suddenly  a  great 
desire  to  go  after  him  to  Datil,  where  I  have  never  yet  been. 
And  I  said  to  myself,  'Plainly  if  you  follow  this  track  you 
will  come  to  that  place/  And  so  you  see  me  here." 

"And  now  that  you're  here,  Mr. ?" 

"Maxwell — not  MacGregor,"  said  MacGregor. 

"Thank  you ;  Maxwell.  Not  MacGregor.  I  must  remember 

28 


GOOD-BY  29 

that."  She  turned  clear,,  unflinching  eyes  upon  him.  "Well, 
let's  have  it!" 

"Er — why — eh !"  said  MacGregor,  and  swallowed  hard.  "I 
don't  quite  understand  you." 

"Oh,  yes  you  do!"  said  Miss  Bennie  cheerfully.  "Don't 
squirm.  What's  on  your  mind?" 

"It  is  now  on  my  mind  that  it  would  be  none  such  a  bad 
scheme  for  me  to  turn  tail  bravely  and  run  away  from  this 
place,"  said  MacGregor,  truthfully;  quite  taken  aback  at  this 
brisk  and  matter-of-fact  directness. 

In  her  innermost  heart  Miss  Bennie  knew  certainly — with 
out  reason,  as  women  know  these  things — that  this  grim  old 
man-at-arms  liked  her  very  well,  and  came  as  a  friend. 

"Blackmail?  Oh  no — that  is  not  in  your  line.  And  I  do 
not  take  you  for  a  tell-tale,  either."  She  looked  him  over 
slowly  and  attentively;  a  cruel,  contemplative  glance.  It 
brought  a  dull  glow  to  MacGregor's  leathern  face,  even  be 
fore  she  spoke.  "I  see!"  She  dropped  the  reins  and  clapped 
her  hands  together.  "You  were  planning  to  take  Clay 
Mundy's  place  with  me — is  that  it  ?" 

MacGregor  plucked  up  spirit  at  the  taunt.  "And  that  was 
an  unkind  speech  of  you,  Miss  Morgan." 

Her  eyes  danced  at  him.  "There  is  but  one  thing  left,  then. 
You  have  come  to  plead  with  me  for  your  friend — your  em 
ployer — to  ask  me  to  spare  his  youth  and  innocence — to  de 
mand  of  me,  as  the  phrase  goes,  if  my  intentions  are  honor 
able.  Is  that  it?" 

"It  is  something  verra  like  that,  then,  if  I  must  brave 
your  displeasure  so  far  as  to  say  it.  And  it  is  my  poor 
opinion  that  so  much  was  verra  needful — though  it  was  in  my 
mind  to  give  you  but  the  bare  hint  that  your  secret  was 
stumbled  upon.  For  what  one  has  chanced  upon  this  day  an 
other  may  chance  tomorrow.  And  there  was  something  else 
besides,  which  I  find  ill  to  put  to  words  to." 

The  girl  dropped  all  pretense.  "I  think  you  meant  kindly 
by  me,  Mr.  MacGregor,  and  I  thank  you  for  it.  And  you 
must  consider  that  our  case  is  hard  indeed.  For  where  can 
we  meet,  if  not  secretly?  Fifty  miles  each  way,  every  ranch 
is  lined  up  on  one  side  or  the  other  of  this  feud.  One  word 
to  my  father's  ear  will  mean  bloodshed  and  death — and  then, 
whoever  wins,  Bennie  Morgan  must  lose." 


30  WEST    IS    WEST 

"Yet  you  must  meet?"  said  MacGregor. 

She  met  his  eyes  bravely.  "Yet  we  must  meet!"  She 
said  it  proudly. 

"You  two  should  wed  out  of  hand  then,  and  put  the  round 
world  between  you  and  this  place/'  said  MacGregor. 

Miss  Bennie  sighed.  "That  is  what  I  tell  Clay.  It  is  the 
only  way.  Soon  or  late,  if  we  live  here,  those  two  would 
clash,  my  father  and  my  husband.  If  we  go  away,  father 
may  get  over  it  in  time.  Clay  does  not  want  to  go.  He 
can  not  bear  to  have  it  said  that  he  had  to  run  away  from 
San  Quentin.  But  I  will  never  marry  him  till  he  is  ready  to 

go.;; 

"He  is  a  fool  for  his  pains,  and  I  will  be  the  one  who  will 
tell  him  that  same !"  declared  MacGregor,  stoutly.  "Him  and 
his  pride !  He  should  be  proud  to  run  further  and  faster  than 
ever  man  rode  before  on  such  an  argument." 

"No — you  mustn't  say  one  word  to  him  about  me — please! 
He  would  be  furious — and  he  is  a  dangerous  man!" 

"I  thank  ye  kindly  for  this  unexpected  care  of  my  safety," 
said  MacGregor  humbly. 

"Oh  these  men !  Must  you  hear  that  you  are  so  dangerous, 
too?  There  would  be  trouble,  and  you  know  it.  Clay's  as 
cross  as  a  bear  with  a  sore  head,  now — so  I  think  he  is  com 
ing  to  my  way  of  thinking,  and  doesn't  like  to  own  up.  Don't 
you  say  anything  to  him.  I'll  tell  him — not  that  you  have 
seen  me,  but  that  we  might  so  easily  be  seen — and  that  our 
meetings  must  be  few  and  far  between.  That  will  help  to 

make  up  his  mind,  too,  if  he  feels "  She  checked  herself, 

with  a  startled  shyness  in  her  sudden  drooping  lids:  she  was 
only  a  young  girl,  for  all  her  frank  and  boyish  courage.  "I 
will  warn  him,  then.  And  yet  I  think  there  is  no  man  who 
would  not  think  twice  before  he  whispered  evil  of  Ben  Mor 
gan's  daughter  and" — she  held  her  head  proud,  she  lifted  her 
brave  eyes — "and  Clay  Mundy's  sweetheart!" 

MacGregor  checked  his  horse,  his  poor,  dull  face  for  once 
lit  up  and  uplifted:  whatever  had  been  best  of  him  in  all  his 
wasted  and  misspent  life  stirred  at  the  call  of  her  gallant 
girlhood. 

"I  think  there  will  be  no  man  so  vile  as  to  think  an  evil 
thing  of  you,"  he  said.  "Miss  Morgan,  I  was  a  puir  meddlin' 


GOOD-BY  31 

fool  to  come  here  on  such  an  errand — and  yet  I  am  glad  that 
I  came,  too.  And  now  I  shall  go  back  and  trouble  you  nae 
mair.  Yet  there  is  one  thing,  too,  before  I  turn  back — and  I 
think  you  will  not  laugh." 

She  faced  him  where  he  stood:  so  that  he  carried  with  him 
a  memory  of  her  dazzling  youth  against  a  dazzle  of  sun.  "I 
shall  not  laugh." 

"It  is  better  than  fifty  years,  they  tell  me,  since  last  the 
San  Quentin  knew  any  such  rains  as  these,"  said  MacGregor 
slowly.  "This  place  has  the  ill  name  of  a  desert.  Yet  all 
this  day  the  air  has  been  heavy  with  sweetness;  all  day  long 
I  have  ridden  stirrup-deep  in  strange  bright  flowers — and  no 
man  knows  the  name  of  them !  Fifty  years  they  have  slept 
in  the  blistered  brown  earth,  the  seeds  of  these  nameless 
flowers,  waiting  for  this  year  of  many  rains.  Lassie,  there 
are  only  too  many  men,  like  me,  of  deserved  and  earned  ill 
name,  as  of  waste  places  where  no  good  thing  can  flourish. 
And  when  you  think  of  us,  I  would  have  you  remember  how 
this  bright,  belated  spring- tide  came  to  San  Quentin.  I  would 
have  you  think  there  may  be  hidden  seeds  of  good  in  us  yet — 
if  only  the  rains  might  come!  And  if  ever  you  have  any 
need  of  me — as  is  most  unlike — I  shall  be  leal  friend  to  you, 
I  shall  stick  at  nothing  in  your  service.  It  is  so  that  I  would 
have  you  think  of  old  MacGregor.  Good-by !" 

"I  shall  not  forget,"  said  Bennie.  "But  you  said  there 
was  something  else — something  hard  to  put  into  words?" 

MacGregor  took  off  his  hat.  "I  think  there  will  be  no 
need  to  say  that — to  you,"  he  said. 

Once  more  her  eyes  searched  him  and  this  time  he  did  not 
flinch — so  high  he  held  her  now  in  his  thought.  She  read 
his  answering  look.  "Yes — since  this  is  the  day  for  plain- 
speaking,  let  me  say  it  for  you.  You  mean  .  .  .  that  it  is  not 
only  whispering  tongues  I  have  to  fear,  or  my  father's  anger 
— no,  nor  black  death  itself — but  that  I  must  fear  myself 
most  of  all?  But,  Mr.  MacGregor — there  was  need  to  say 
that  indeed !  And  now  you  are  my  friend,  for  I  have  trusted 
you  very  greatly." 

"Good-by,  then !"  said  MacGregor  again.  He  bent  over  her 
hand. 

"Good-by!" 


8KULL8PRING 

MACGREGOR  worked  out  the  Whitewater  country  and  moved 
his  camp  to  Bear  Springs,  on  the  southern  frontier  of  the 
Mundy  range.  From  here  he  rode  the  cedar  brakes  on  the 
high  flanks  of  the  mountain,  branding  late  calves.  This  work 
was  most  effectively  done  at  early  daybreak  and  at  sundown, 
when  the  wild  cattle  ventured  from  the  thickets  into  the  open 
glades  and  valleys. 

For  a  week,  Milt  Craig  had  ridden  with  him.  But  Milt 
had  made  his  pack  yesterday  and  moved  on  to  the  Cienaga, 
where  MacGregor  was  to  join  him  later,  once  he  had  picked 
up  the  few  calves  that  still  went  unbranded  in  the  Bear 
Spring  country.  So  today  MacGregor  rode  alone. 

Ever  drifting  from  one  bunch  of  cattle  to  another  and  then 
on  to  another  clump  of  red  and  white  on  the  next  hill-side,  as 
the  day  wore  on  he  found  himself  well  across  in  the 
Wyandotte-Morgan  country;  prowling  in  the  tangle  of  hills, 
south  of  the  Magdalena  road,  which  was  the  accepted  dividing 
line. 

As  the  sun  rode  on  to  afternoon,  the  prowler  turned  back, 
and  made  his  way  to  Skullspring,  with  a  thought  of  the 
trickle  of  water  that  dripped  from  the  high  cliffs  there;  and 
as  he  came  down  a  ridge  of  backbone  from  the  upper  bench, 
he  saw  a  little  curl  of  smoke  rising  above  the  Skullspring 
bluff. 

MacGregor  remarked  upon  this  fact  to  Neighbor  his  horse. 
"We  are  in  a  hostile  country,  Neighbor,"  said  he.  "For  all 
we  are  so  quiet  and  peaceful  these  days,  it  will  be  the  part  of 
prudence  to  have  a  look  into  this  matter,  least  we  go  blunder 
ing  in  where  we  arenae  much  wanted."  He  tied  Neighbor  in 
i  a  little  hollow  of  the  hill,  and  went  down  with  infinite  pre 
caution  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff  above  Skullspring. 

32 


SKULLSPRING  33 

Three  men  were  by  the  the  fire  below — all  strangers  to 
MacGregor.  That  gentleman  lay  flat  on  the  rock,  peering 
through  a  bush,  and  looked  them  over.  Clearly,  they  had 
only  stopped  to  Skullspring  for  nooning.  Two  were  cow 
boys:  their  saddled  horses  stood  by.  The  younger  of  these 
two  stowed  a  little  grub-sack  under  the  seat  of  a  light  buggy 
that  stood  by  the  fire.  The  third  person,  a  tall  man  of 
about  thirty,  had  the  look  of  a  town-man.  He  wore  a  black 
suit  and  a  "hard-boiled"  hat. 

"I  tell  you,"  said  the  older  cowboy,  a  sullen-faced  young 
man.  "I'll  be  good  and  glad  a-plenty  when  this  thing  is  over 
with.  It's  a  shaky  business." 

"Don't  get  cold  feet,  Joe,'*  advised  the  tall  man.  "You're 
getting  big  money,  mighty  big  money,  for  a  small  risk." 

"I  notice  there's  none  of  these  San  Quentin  hombres  caring 
for  any  of  it,"  grumbled  Joe,  sulkily. 

"Aw,  now,  be  reasonable,"  said  the  tall  man.  "He  wouldn't 
risk  letting  any  of  the  home  people  know.  Too  shaky.  You 
get  the  chance  just  because  you're  a  stranger.  And  because 
you're  a  stranger,  you  can  get  away  without  being  noticed." 

Plainly,  here  was  mischief  afoot.  It  seemed  likely  to  Mac 
Gregor  that  Clay  Mundy  was  to  be  object  of  it. 

The  younger  man  of  the  party  spoke  up.  "I'm  not  only 
goin'  to  get  away,  but  I'm  goin'  to  keep  on  gettin'  away.  I'm 
after  that  dough  all  right,  all  right — but  lemme  tell  you,  Mr. 
Hamerick,  this  country '11  be  too  hot  for  me  when  it's  over." 

MacGregor  barely  breathed.  It  appeared  that  the  tall 
man  was  Hamerick,  for  he  answered.  "I'm  going  away  my 
self.  But  this  is  too  good  a  chance  for  easy  money,  and  we 
don't  want  to  make  a  hash  of  it.  Keep  your  nerve.  Your 
part  is  easy.  You  take  the  first  right-hand  trail  and  drift 
south  across  that  saddle-back  pass  yonder,  so  you'll  get  there 
before  I  do.  You'll  find  the  Bent  ranch  right  under  the  pass. 
Nobody  there.  The  Bents  have  all  gone  to  Magdalena  for 
supplies.  Mrs.  Bent  is  going  to  Socorro  and  Bent'll  wait  for 
her.  You're  to  make  yourselves  at  home,  so  there  won't  be 
anything  suspicious — new  men  working  there ;  sorry  the  Bents 
are  gone,  and  all  that."  He  kicked  out  the  dying  fire. 

"And  if  anyone  comes,  then  what?"  Joe  glowered  at  him 
with  the  question. 


34  WEST    IS    WEST 

"Then  your're  strangers,  passing  by.  It  isn't  at  all  likely 
that  any  one'll  come.  The  nearest  ranch  is  twenty-five  miles. 
But  if  any  one  should  come,  it's  all  off,  for  today.  We  want 
to  have  the  longest  start  we  can  get.  And  for  Mundy,  he 
has  his  own  reasons.  You'll  ride  out  to  good  grass  and  make 
camp.  If  we  see  your  fire,  Mundy  and  me'll  turn  back.  We'll 
pull  it  off  tomorrow." 

Mundy !  MacGregor's  heart  leaped.  Were  the  men  to  entice 
Mundy  to  the  Bent  ranch  and  murder  him  there,  while  he  was 
off  his  guard,  thinking  himself  among  friends?  MacGregor 
drew  his  gun,  minded  to  fall  upon  the  plotters  without  more 
ado:  the  vantage  of  ground  more  than  made  up  for  the  odds 
of  numbers.  But  he  put  back  his  gun.  They  were  to 
separate.  He  would  follow  the  man  Hamerick  and  deal  with 
him  alone. 

"I  am  to  meet  Mundy  at  that  little  sugar-loaf  hill  yonder, 
four  or  five  miles  out  on  the  plain,"  said  Hamerick.  "I'll  be 
late,  too — jawing  with  you  fellows  this  way.  Then  I'll  go  on 
down  the  wagon-road  to  Bent's  with  him.  The  play  is  that 
I'm  supposed  to  think  the  Bent  folks  are  at  home.  You 
boys'll  have  plenty  of  time  to  get  settled  down." 

"If  we  don't  run  into  a  wasp's  nest,"  said  Joe  sulkily. 

Hamerick  scowled.  "I'm  the  one  that's  taking  the  biggest 
risk,  with  this  dammed  buggy — but  I've  got  to  have  it,  to 
play  the  part.  I'll  leave  it,  once  I  get  safe  back  to  my 
saddle." 

"We  three  want  to  ride  in  three  different  directions,"  said 
Joe.  "I  wish  it  was  over." 

Hamerick  gave  him  a  sinister  look.  "You  get  no  money  till 
I  get  a-straddle  of  a  horse  again — I'll  tell  you  that  right 
now,  my  laddie-buck!  This  buggy's  too  easy  to  track  up,  if 
anything  goes  wrong.  You'd  like  it  first-rate  to  ride  off  scot- 
free  and  leave  me  to  hold  the  sack." 

"I  won't,  eh!"  Joe  took  a  step  forward,  his  ugly  face 
blotched  with  crimson.  "Damn  you,  I've  took  just  about 
enough  from  you!" 

Here  the  younger  man  interposed.  "Oh,  you  both  make 
me  sick!"  His  voice  was  cutting  and  cold,  venomous  in  its 
unforced  evenness.  "I  guess  I'll  do  a  little  telling  now,  my 
self.  If  you  fellows  get  to  fighting,  I'll  do  my  best  to  kill 
both  of  you.  Got  that?" 


SKULLSPRING  35 

MacGregor  almost  hugged  himself  with  delight.  "Oh,  if 
they  once  get  to  shooting — if  they  only  would!"  he  thought. 
"It  would  be  a  strange  thing  if  between  the  four  of  us  we 
should  not  do  a  good  day's  work  of  it!" 

"Now,  now,  Tait " 

"Don't  Tait  me !"  said  Tait,  in  the  same  deadly  level.  "This 
is  a  wise  bunch  for  a  ticklish  job,  ain't  it?  I  know  that 
no  one  but  a  dirty  skunk  would  be  found  in  such  dirty  work 
—but  is  that  any  reason  why  we  should  be  fools,  too? 
Hamerick's  right,  Joe.  We'll  string  along  with  him  till  he 
gets  to  a  saddle — and  then  may  the  devil  take  the  hindmost! 
Maybe  we'll  find  a  saddle  at  the  Bent  ranch.  If  we  do,  all 
the  better.  The  sooner  I  see  the  last  of  you  two,  the  better 
pleased  I'll  be.  For  you  Hamerick — you're  engineerin'  this 
thing,  but  when  it  comes  down  to  brass  tacks,  I'm  the  best 
man,  and  don't  you  forget  it.  So  if  you're  been  plannin'  any 
nice  little  plans  to  hold  out  part  of  the  price  on  me  and  Joe, 
you  can  throw  'em  over  for  excess  baggage,  right  here.  For 
I'm  to  put  it  up  to  the  paymaster,  right  to  your  face — you 
won't  have  no  chance  to  fool  us.  Now  don't  give  up  any  more 
head  to  me !  You'll  stick  to  me  against  Joe  till  you're  horse 
back  again,  with  a  fair  chance  for  a  getaway:  Joe'll  stick  to  me 
till  we  get  a  fair  divvy  on  the  money — and  if  either  of  you 
don't  like  it,  you  can  double  up  on  me  whenever  you  feel 
lucky.  I'm  ready  for  you  both  any  turn  in  the  road." 

The  challange  went  unmet.  It  was  plain  that  Tait  was  to 
be  master.  MacGregor  waited  for  no  more.  He  rolled  back 
from  the  bare  rim  with  scarce  more  noise  than  a  shadow 
would  have  made.  He  crawled  to  the  nearest  huddle  of  rocks 
and  hid  away.  For  a  little,  the  muffled  murmur  of  angry 
voices  floated  to  him;  then  came  the  sound  of  wheels  and  a 
ringing  of  shod  feet  on  rock;  Tait  and  Joe  toiled  up  the  trail 
beyond  the  cliff-end,  paced  slowly  by,  black  against  the  sky 
line,  and  dipped  down  into  a  dark  hollow  that  twisted  away 
towards  Bent's  Pass. 

The  tingling  echoes  died;  and  then  MacGregor  climbed 
back  to  Neighbor.  The  game  was  in  his  hands.  Keeping  to 
the  ridge,  he  would  gain  a  long  mile  on  the  wagon  road,  deep 
in  the  winding  pass.  He  was  in  high  feather  as  he  followed 
the  plunging  slope;  he  laughed  as  he  rode;  his  eyes  drank 


36  WEST   IS   WEST 

in  the  brightness  of  the  day.  This  would  be  a  rare  jest  to 
tell  at  camp-fires ! 

"Now  I  wonder  who  can  be  at  the  bottom  of  this  bonny 
scheme?"  he  chuckled.  "It  doesnae  sound  much  like  the  San 
Quentin  folk,  who,  if  reports  be  true,  are  accustomed  to  do 
their  own  murders.  And  if  the  man  Hamerick  tells  the  whole 
story,  what  then?  That  will  be  for  Mundy  to  say.  Any  rate, 
'tis  a  fine  thing  for  Clay  Mundy  that  my  dry  throttle  drove 
me  to  Skullspring  just  at  that  time." 

When  he  came  into  the  wagon  road  the  buggy  was  just 
before  him,  close  to  the  mouth  of  the  pass.  MacGregor  struck 
into  a  gallop. 

The  stranger  had  been  going  at  a  brisk  gait,  but  at  sight  of 
the  horseman  he  slowed  to  a  prim  and  mincing  little  trot. 

"A  fine  day,  sir,"  said  MacGregor  civilly,  as  he  rode  along 
side. 

"It  certainly  is,"  said  the  stranger.  He  was  plainly  ill  at 
ease  at  this  ill-timed  meeting,  but  tried  to  carry  it  off.  "How 
far  is  it  to  Old  Fort  Tularosa,  can  you  tell  me?" 

MacGregor  squinted  across  the  plain.  "A  matter  of  forty 
miles,  I  should  say.  Goin'  across?" 

The  stranger  shook  his  head.  "Not  to-day.  I  think  I 
will  camp  here  for  the  night  and  have  a  look  in  the  hills  for 
a  deer.  You're  not  going  to  the  Fort  yourself,  are  you?" 

MacGregor  grinned  cheerfully.  Knowing  what  he  did,  he 
knew  that  this  was  Hamerick's  device  to  try  to  shake  off  his 
unwelcome  company.  "Well,  no;  not  to-day.  The  fact  is, 
sir" — he  bent  over  close  and  sunk  his  voice  to  a  confidential 
whisper — "the  fact  is,  if  you're  for  camping  here  the  night,  I 
must  even  camp  here,  too." 

"What!" 

"Just  that.  And  first  of  all,  do  you  remark  this  little  gun 
which  I  hold  here  in  my  hand?  Then  I  will  ask  you  to  stop 
and  to  get  out  upon  this  side,  holding  to  your  lines  verra  care 
fully  lest  the  beastie  should  run  away,  while  I  search  you 
for  any  bit  weapons  of  your  ain.  For  you  spoke  very  glibly 
of  hunting  a  deer — and  yet  I  do  not  see  any  rifle." 

Hamerick  groaned  as  he  climbed  out;  he  had  not  thought 
of  that.  "I  haven't  any  rifle.  My  revolver  is  under  the 
cushion — but  of  course  you  can  search  me,  if  you  think  I've 


SKULLSPRING  37 

got  another.  What  the  devil  do  you  want,  anyway?  If  it's 
money  you're  after,  you'll  get  most  mighty  little." 

"All  in  good  time,  all  in  good  time,"  said  MacGregor  cheer 
fully.  He  went  through  Hamerick  for  arms ;  finding  none,  he 
went  through  the  buggy,  finding  the  gun  under  the  cushion. 
He  inspected  this  carefully,  tried  it,  and  stuck  it  in  his 
waistband. 

"Will  you  kindly  go  aside  some  few  steps,  sir?"  said  Mac 
Gregor  politely.  "I  am  dry,  and  I  would  have  a  good  swig  of 
water  from  your  canteen,  but  I  didnae  wish  to  set  myself  in 
that  defenseless  posture  of  holding  a  canteen  to  my  throat 
whilst  ye  were  still  armed." 

"You  see  I  have  no  money,  you  have  my  gun,  you  have  your 
drink — what  more  do  you  want  of  me?"  spluttered  Hamerick. 
"Let  me  go!  I  have  an  appointment — I'll  be  late  now." 

"With  that  deer,  ye  are  meaning?"  MacGregor  sat  cross- 
legged  on  the  ground  and  whittled  off  a  pipeful  of  tobacco 
with  loving  care.  He  puffed  a  while  in  great  satisfaction, 
watching  his  fuming  captive  with  twinkling  eyes.  "Do  you 
know,  sir,"  he  said  at  last,  between  whiffs,  "that  in  my  puir 
opeenion,  if  you  knew  how  you  are  like  to  keep  that  appoint 
ment  of  yours,  you  would  be  little  made  up  with  it?" 

Hamerick  stammered.  He  had  no  idea  of  what  his  captor 
was  driving  at,  but  he  had  his  own  reasons  for  great  uneasi 
ness.  He  pulled  himself  together  with  an  effort.  "I — I  don't 
know  what  you  mean.  I  see  now  that  you  are  not  a  robber, 
as  I  first  thought.  You  are  mistaking  me  for  some  other  man. 
You  can't  be  doing  yourself  any  possible  good  by  keeping  me 
here.  I  tell  you  I  am  waited  for." 

"Take  my  word  for  it,  sir — if  you  knew  my  way  of  it,  you 
would  be  less  impatient  for  that  tryst  of  yours." 

"What — what  the  devil  do  you  mean?" 

"I  will  tell  you  then,  Mr.  Hamerick."  At  this  unexpected 
sound  of  his  own  name,  Hamerick  started  visibly.  "If  Clay 
Mundy  is  at  all  of  my  mind,  this  is  what  we  shall  do:  We 
will  set  you  on  Clay  Mundy's  horse  and  put  Clay  Mundy's 
hat  upon  your  head ;  and  we  two  will  get  in  your  bit  wagon 
and  drive  you  before  our  guns — just  at  dusk,  d'ye  mind? — to 
the  Bent  ranch;  and  there,  if  I  do  not  miss  my  guess,  you 
will  be  shot  to  death  by  hands  of  your  own  hiring !" 


38  WEST    IS    WEST 

Here  MacGregor,  gloating  on  that  pleasant  inward  vision, 
was  extremely  disconcerted  by  the  behavior  of  his  prospective 
victim.  So  far  from  being  appalled,  Hamerick  was  black 
with  rage;  he  stamped,  he  shook  his  fist,  he  struggled  for 
speech  in  a  choking  fury. 

"You  fool!  You  poor  spy!  Idiot!  Bungler!  Why  couldn't 
you  tell  me  you  were  Mundy's  man?" 

"Steady,  there!  Are  you  meaning  to  face  it  out  that  you 
did  not  plan  to  murder  Clay  Mundy?  Because  we  are  going 
on  now  to  see  him." 

Hamerick  gathered  up  the  reins  eagerly.  "Come  on,  then, 
damn  you — before  it's  too  late!"  There  was  relief  and  tri 
umph  in  his  voice — and  at  the  sound  of  it  MacGregor  sick 
ened  with  a  guess  at  the  whole  dreadful  business;  the  bright 
day  faded.  "Me,  kill  Clay  Mundy?  Why,  you  poor,  pitiful 
bungler,  Clay  Mundy  brought  me  here  to  play  preacher  for 
him !" 

MacGregor  drew  back.  His  face  flamed ;  his  eyes  were  ter 
rible.  He  jerked  out  Hamerick's  gun  and  threw  it  at  Hame- 
rick's  feet.  There  was  a  dreadful  break  in  his  voice.  "Pro 
tect  yourself!"  he  said. 

But  Hamerick  shrank  back,  white-lipped,  cringing.  "I 
won't!  I  won't  touch  it!" 

"Cur!" 

"Oh,  don't  kill  me,  don't  murder  me!"  Hamerick  was 
•wringing  his  hands ;  he  was  almost  screaming. 

MacGregor  turned  shamed  eyes  away.  He  took  up  Hame 
rick's  gun.  "Strip  the  harness  from  that  horse  then,  take  the 
bridle  and  ride!  And  be  quick,  lest  I  think  better  of  it.  Go 
back  the  way  you  came,  and  keep  on  going!  For  I  shall  tell 
your  name  and  errand,  and  there  is  no  man  of  Morgan's  men 
but  will  kill  you  at  kirk  or  gallows-foot." 

He  watched  in  silence  as  Hamerick  fled.  Then  he  rode 
down  the  pass,  sick-hearted,  brooding,  grieving.  He  came  to 
the  mouth  of  the  pass :  at  the  plain's  edge  he  saw  a  horseman, 
near  by,  coming  swiftly.  It  was  Clay  Mundy. 


VI 

NO  DWELLING  MORE  ON  SEA  OR  CHORE 

MACGREGOR  slowed  up.  The  flush  of  burning  wrath  had 
died  away;  his  face  was  set  to  a  heavy,  impassive  mask.  He 
thrust  Hamerick's  gun  between  his  left  knee  and  the  stirrup- 
leather  and  gripped  it  there.  He  rode  on  to  meet  Clay 
gan — and  the  nameless  flowers  of  San  Quentin  were  stirrup- 
high  about  him  as  he  rode. 

He  drew  rein  so  Mundy  should  come  to  his  right  side;  and 
again,  as  at  their  first  meeting,  he  laid  both  his  hands  on  the 
saddle  horn  as  he  halted. 

Clay  Mundy's  face  was  dark  with  suspicion. 

"Have  you  seen  a  fool  in  a  buggy?"  he  demanded. 

"I  see  a  fool  on  a  horse!"  responded  MacGregor  calmly. 
"For  the  person  you  seek,  I  have  put  such  a  word  in  his  ear 
that  he  will  never  stop  this  side  of  tidewater.  What  devil's 
work  is  this,  Clay  Mundy?" 

"You  damned  meddler!  Are  you  coward  as  well  as  med 
dler,  that  you  dare  not  move  your  hands?" 

"Put  up  your  foolish  gun,  man — you  cannae  fricht  me  with 
it.  The  thing  is  done  and  shooting  will  never  undo  it. 
There  will  be  no  mock-marriage  this  way,  nor  ony  day — 
and  now  shoot,  if  you  will,  and  damned  to  you !  Man !  Have 
ye  gone  clean  daft?  Or  did  ye  wish  to  proclaim  it  that  ye 
were  no  match  for  the  Morgans  in  war?  And  did  ye  think 
to  live  the  week  out?  That  had  been  a  chance  had  you  mar 
ried  her  indeed,  with  bell  and  book — as  whaur  could  ye  find 

better  mate  ?    But  after  such  black  treachery  as  ye  meant 

Man,  ye  are  not  in  your  right  mind,  the  devil  is  at  your  ear !" 

"It  is  hard  to  kill  a  man  who  will  not  defend  himself,"  said 
Mundy  thickly.  "I  spared  your  life  once  because  you  amused 


40  WEST    IS    WEST 

"And  because  it  was  a  verra  judeecious  thing,  too — and  you 
are  well  knowing  to  that  same.  Think  ye  I  value  my  life 
owre  high,  or  that  I  fear  ye  at  all,  that  I  come  seeking  you? 
Take  shame  to  yourself,  man!  Have  a  better  thought  of  it 
yet!  Say  you  will  marry  the  lassie  before  my  eyes,  and  I 
will  go  with  you  on  that  errand;  or  turn  you  back  and  I  will 
go  with  her  back  to  the  house  of  the  Morgans — and  for  her 
sake,  I  will  keep  your  shame  to  mysel'.  Or,  if  it  likes  you 
better,  you  may  even  fall  to  the  shooting." 

"Fool !"  said  Mundy.  "I  can  kill  you  before  you  can  touch 
your  gun." 

"It  is  what  I  doubt,"  said  MacGregor.  "Please  yourself. 
For  me  there  is  but  the  clean  stab  of  death — but  you  must 
leave  behind  the  name  of  a  false  traitor  to  be  a  hissing  and  a 
byword  in  the  mouths  of  men." 

"I  will  say  this  much,  that  I  was  wrong  to  call  you  cow 
ard,"  said  Mundy,  in  a  changed  voice.  "You  are  a  bold  and 
stubborn  man,  and  I  think  there  is  a  chance  that  you  might 
get  your  gun — yes,  and  shoot  straight,  too.  I  will  not  marry 
the  girl — but  neither  will  I  harm  her.  But  I  will  not  be 
driven  further.  I  am  not  willing  to  skulk  away  while  you  tell 
her  your  way  of  the  story.  That  would  be  too  sorry  a  part. 
I  will  go  on  alone,  and  tell  her,  and  send  her  home." 

"You  will  say  your  man  fled  before  the  Morgans,  or  was 
taken  by  them,  or  some  such  lies,  and  lure  her  on  to  her  ruin," 
said  MacGregor.  "I  will  not  turn  back." 

"I  will  give  you  the  minute  to  turn  back,"  said  Mundy. 

"It  is  what  I  will  never  do !" 

"Then  you  will  die  here,"  said  Mundy. 

"Think  of  me  as  one  dead  an  hour  gone,"  said  MacGregor 
steadily.  "My  life  is  long  since  forfeit  to  every  law  of  God 
or  man.  I  am  beyond  the  question.  Think  rather  of  yourself. 
You  have  the  plain  choice  before  you — a  bonny  wife  to  cher 
ish,  and  bairns  to  your  knee — life  and  love,  peace  and  just 
dealing  and  quiet  days — or  at  the  other  hand  but  dusty  death 
and  black  shame  to  the  back  of  that !" 

As  a  snake  strikes,  Mundy's  hand  shot  out:  he  jerked  Mac- 
Gregor's  gun  from  the  scabbard  and  threw  it  behind  him. 
His  face  lit  up  with  ferocious  joy. 

"You  prating  old  windbag!     How  about  it  now?     I'll  be 


NO  DWELLING  ON  SEA  OR  SHORE     41 

driven  by  no  man  on  earth,  much  less  by  a  wordy  old  bluffer 
like  you/' 

"You  used  other  speech  but  now.  Ye  are  false  in  war  as 
in  love.  But  I  carenae  for  hard  words,  so  you  deal  justly 
with  the  lassie.  Wed  her  with  me  to  witness,  or  let  her  go 
free." 

"Talk  to  the  wind !"  said  Mundy. 

"For  the  last  time,  Mundy,  give  it  up!  In  the  name  of 
God!" 

"Get  off  that  horse  and  drag  it!  I  give  you  your  life — 
you're  not  worth  my  killing.  Never  be  seen  on  the  San  Quen- 
tin  again !" 

"Mundy " 

"Get  off,  I  say!"  Mundy  spurred  close,  his  cocked  gun 
swung  shoulder  high. 

"Aweel,"  said  MacGregor.  He  began  to  slide  off  slowly, 
his  right  hand  on  the  saddle  horn;  his  left  hand  went  to  the 
gun  at  his  left  knee;  he  thrust  it  up  under  Neighbor's  neck 
and  fired  once,  twice — again!  Crash  of  flames,  roaring  of 
gun  shots :  he  was  on  his  back,  Neighbor's  feet  were  in  his 
ribs;  he  fired  once  more,  blindly,  from  under  the  trampling 
feet. 

Breathless,  crushed,  he  struggled  to  his  knees,  the  blood 
pumping  from  two  bullet-holes  in  his  great  body.  A  yard 
away,  Clay  Mundy  lay  on  his  face,  crumpled  and  still,  clutch 
ing  a  smoking  gun. 

"I  didnae  touch  his  face,"  said  MacGregor.  He  threw  both 
guns  behind  him ;  he  turned  Mundy  over  and  opened  his  shirt. 
One  wound  was  in  his  breast,  close  beside  his  heart;  another 
was  through  the  heart.  MacGregor  looked  down  upon  him. 

"The  puir,  mad,  misguided  lad!"  he  said  between  pain- 
wrung  lips.  "Surely  he  was  gone  horn-mad  with  hate  and 
wrong  and  revenge." 

He  covered  the  dead  man's  face,  and  straightened  the  stif 
fening  arms,  and  sat  beside  him:  he  looked  at  the  low  sun, 
the  splendor  of  the  western  ranges;  he  held  his  hand  to  his 
own  breast  to  stay  the  pulsing  blood. 

"And  the  puir  lassie — she  will  hear  this  shameful  tale  of 
him!  Had  I  looked  forward  and  killed  yonder  knave  Hame- 


42  WEST    IS    WEST 

rick,  she  had  blamed  none  but  me.  'Twas  ill  done  .  .  .  Ay, 
but  she's  young  still.  She  will  have  a  cave  and  a  fire  of  her 
own  yet." 

There  was  silence  a  little  space,  and  his  hand  slipped.  Then 
he  opened  his  dulling  eyes: 

"Hullo,  Central!  .  .  .  Give  me  Body,  please.  .  .  .  Hullo, 
Body!  Hullo!  That  you,  Body?  .  .  .  MacGregor's  Soul, 
speaking.  I  am  going  away.  Good  luck  to  you — good-by! 
.  I  don't  know  where." 


ONCE  UPON  A  TIME 

CHAPTER    I 

THE   LONG  SHIFT 

ECHOES  of  the  explosion  yet  volleyed  from  cliff  to  cliff;  a 
thin  cloud  of  smoke  and  dust  hung  heavily  over  the  shaft 
mouth.  They  huddled  together  on  the  dump — the  four  men  of 
the  night  shift,  peacefully  asleep  a  moment  since;  the  young 
manager,  still  holding  a  pen  in  his  nerveless  fingers ;  the  black 
smith,  the  cook,  and  the  Mexican  water-carrier — all  that  were 
left  of  the  Argonauts. 

No  one  spoke;  there  was  no  need.  The  dynamite,  stored  in 
the  eighty- foot  cross-cut,  had  exploded;  no  one  knew  how  or 
why.  The  shaft  walls  had  heaved  and  crushed  together;  the 
dump  had  fallen  in  for  yards ;  the  very  hillside  had  slipped  and 
closed  over  the  spot  where  the  shaft  of  the  Golden  Fleece  had 
been.  The  eight  men  of  the  day-shift  were  buried  alive. 
Working  in  the  further  stopes  and  cross-cuts  of  the  deeper 
levels,  they  could  hardly  have  been  killed  outright.  Remained 
for  them  the  long,  slow  agony  of  suffocation — or  the  mercy  of 
the  fire.  For  there  was  scarcely  room  to  hope  that  the 
explosion  had  not  fired  the  timber  work. 

They  knew  this,  these  silent  men  at  the  pit  mouth;  knew 
there  was  no  chance  that  they  could  clear  away  the  shaft  in 
time — not  if  they  were  eighty  instead  of  eight.  To  tear  away 
that  tangle  of  shattered  rock  was  a  matter  of  weeks ;  the  air 
supply  in  the  living  grave  beneath  was  a  matter  of  days  or 
hours.  They  knew,  too,  that  their  comrades  were  even  then 
speaking  hopefully  of  "the  boys";  that  to  the  last  the  pris 
oners  would  hold  unfaltering  trust — in  them !  And  one  fell  on 
his  face  and  cried  on  the  name  of  God — Van  Atta,  manager 

and  half  owner. 

43 


44  WEST    IS   WEST 

"No  hope,  no  hope,  no  hope!"  he  sobbed.  "We  can't  save 
'em.  Keough  wanted  me  to  put  in  a  ventilator  shaft.  I 
wouldn't — and  now  I  have  murdered  them!  They  will  wait 
for  us — wait — wait — O  God !  God !  God !" 

He  was  young,  inexperienced,  half-invalid  yet,  now  brought 
for  the  first  time  face  to  face  with  sudden  and  violent  death: 
small  wonder  if  he  broke  down  for  a  moment.  A  moment 
only — he  sprang  to  his  feet,  his  face  new-lighted  with  hope 
and  energy. 

"The  old  Showdown  tunnel!  They  will  remember  that — if 
they  are  alive  they  will  expect  us  to  break  through  from 
there !  Keough  intended  to  connect  it  with  Gallery  Four 
on  the  last  level,  to  save  hoisting.  I  surveyed  it  then — I 
know  the  bearings — we  can  tear  out  some  kind  of  a  hole. — 
Come  on,  men !  Oh,  my  God,  we'll  do  it  yet !" 

They  clambered  down  the  steep,  boulder-strewn  mountain 
side,  bearing  drills,  hammers,  "spoons,"  picks,  shovels,  powder, 
fuse,  caps,  water,  candles — all  needful  to  begin  work. 

Near  the  face,  far  back  in  the  winding  tunnel,  Van  Atta 
drove  a  gad  into  the  hanging  wall.  "Start  from  here.  Keep 
an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees  from  the  course  of  the'tunnel, 
and  a  twenty  degree  dip.  It*is  twenty-four  to  twenty-five  feet 
in,  and  seven  feet  below  us." 

"Go !"  said  Price,  holding  the  starter  in  place.  White 
began  another  hole  above  him. 

Van  Atta  raised  his  voice  to  be  heard  above  the  beating  ham 
mers.  "Jones  will  sharpen  steel  now  and  help  you  later. 
The  work  will  fall  on  you  five;  Charlie  and  I  are  out  of* it. 
The  Mexican  boy  could  do  more  work  than  either  of  us.  We 
three  will  rig  up  some  sort  of  makeshift  ventilator,  move  the 
forge  and  cook  outfit  down,  muck  away  for  you,  cook  your 
meals.  Save  yourselves  for  the  drills.  Tell  us  what  you  need, 
and  we  will  get  it.  Jones  will  work  our  steel  bars  up  into  the 
longest  possible  set  of  drills.  We'll  shoot  out  till  the  longest 
drill  will  reach,  and  then  drive  a  hole  right  through.  We  can 
pump  in  fresh  air  then,  pour  down  water  and  coffee  and  soup, 
and  break  out  the  balance  afterwards.  If  we  only  had  more 
men !  Had  we  better  send  some  one  to  San  Clemente  for  help  ? 
Or  north  to  the  ranches  by  Red  Mesa?" 

"Red  Mesa  is  closer,  but  there  may  be  no  one  there.     It's 


THE   LONG    SHIFT  45 

forty-five  mile  to  San  Clemente,"  said  Lone  Miller.  "The 
boy  couldn't  do  it  afoot — we  can't  spare  a  man.  By  the  time 
they  got  back,  it  might  be  too  late — and  the  man's  work  here 
might  make  all  the  difference."  He  swung  his  hammer  sav 
agely.  "But  there's  two  other  men  besides  ourselves  on  Mal- 
ibu  Knob.  Doc  Hughes  is  only  five  miles  from  here/'  he 
blurted  out  at  last.  "He's  at  the  Nymyer  copper  claim  and 
another  Welshman  with  him.  We  can  do  it  with  them.  They 
just  got  out  from  turn.  I  saw  them  when  I  was  out  hunting 
yesterday  afternoon.  Doc  is  a  dirty  mutt — a  low-down  camp- 
robber.  I'll  get  him  yet,  the  damned  scoundrel !  .  .  .  Not 
now.  He  can  break  more  rock  than  any  man  that  walks.  Send 
for  him.  Maybe  he'll  come/'  he  sneered.  "Tell  him  it's  our 
only  chance  for  help — that  we  can't  break  through  in  time. 
Tell  him  I  said  so — me,  Lone  Miller — that  I  asked  him  to 
come." 

"That's  a  whisky-bloat's  job,"  said  Charlie,  the  cook.  "Keep 
your  men  for  men's  work."  He  was  gone. 

"The  other  monkey  is  good,  too,"  said  Miller.  "Not  so 
good  as  Caradoc  Hughes,  but  a  miner.  Trust  Cousin  Jock 
for  that." 

Two  of  the  night-shift  were  Welshmen.  "Goeslong,  my 
son,"  said  one,  well  pleased. 

Swiftly  the  hammers  fell,  square  and  true;  slipping  so 
easily  that  the  work  seemed  as  effortless  as  driving  tacks. 
But  back  and  shoulders  were  in  each  blow — the  tough  ash 
handles  bent,  the  drills  sank  steadily  into  the  rock.  No  ordi 
nary  toil — their  best,  and  better  than  their  best. 

Without,  the  blacksmith  beat  a  brave  tattoo  on  the  glowing 
steel,  sharpening  set  after  set  of  drills.  The  starters  were  a 
foot  long,  each  succeeding  drill  five  or  six  inches  longer  than 
the  preceding  one,  and  slightly  narrower  at  the  bit,  so  that  it 
would  follow  in  the  hole.  Seven  or  eight  drills  made  a  set, 
the  longest  four  or  five  feet.  Carefully  he  wrought,  and 
watched  with  anxious  eye  as  he  plunged  the  hissing  points  into 
the  water  and,  holding  them  up,  saw  the  temper  draw  steel- 
blue  and  white-specked  to  the  edge. 

Meantime  the  Mexican  lad  and  the  manager  worked  on 
their  improvised  ventilating  rig — lengths  of  pipe  laid  down 
the  tunnel,  screwed  together,  and  connected  with  an  extra 


46  WEST    IS    WEST 

bellows  set  up  on  the  dump.  Before  they  were  done,  the  first 
shots  were  fired.  Leaving  Clovis  to  finish  tightening  up  the 
joints,  Van  Atta  went  into  the  tunnel.  The  candles  smol 
dered  faintly  through  the  sickly  smoke,  where  Miller  and 
White  worked  on  a  new  hole.  Williams,  on  his  hands  and 
knees  between  striker  and  holder,  threw  the  broken  rock  to 
Price,  who  carried  it  farther  back. 

"That's  it — that's  good !"  said  Van,  screwing  a  length  of 
hose  on  his  pipe-line  to  carry  the  fresh  air  quite  to  the  front. 
"Whew!  This  powder  is  rank!  I'll  have  fresh  air  pumped 
down  in  a  jiffy.  You  two  boys  go  back  to  the  air  till  it's 
your  time  to  drill.  I'll  get  a  wheel-barrow  and  muck  away. 
Don't  make  the  mistake  of  cutting  the  drift  so  small  you  can't 
work  to  advantage — and  don't  waste  time  pounding  dull  steel." 

From  this  time  on  Clovis  or  Van  pumped  in  fresh  air 
steadily.  Van,  at  the  bellows,  in  the  gathering  dusk, 
glimpsed  two  speeding  forms  black  against  the  sky-line.  "Oh, 
good  work!  Good  work,  Cooky!"  he  cried  exultingly.  "Ten* 
miles,  and  over  that  trail!  He  must  have  run  all  the  way 
over !" 

A  shout  went  up  in  the  tunnel  when  Van  told  his  news. 
"I  was  afraid  something  would  happen/'  said  Miller.  "They 
might  have  been  away — hunting,  maybe.  Sundown's  the  best 
time  for  deer." 

A  burly  giant  came  puffing  down  the  tunnel:  Caradoc 
Hughes,  huge,  brutal,  broad-chested,  red-faced,  red-haired, 
bull-necked,  thick-lipped.  He  bellowed  strange  greetings  and 
shouldered  the  striker  aside.  "Le's  see,  moi  son !  Taper  off  a 
bit!" 

"Taake  foive,"  said  Davis,  following  more  quietly,  as  he 
took  the  drill  from  the  holder.  Caradoc  grinned  villainously 
at  Miller.  "Halloo!  Hast  thy  gun,  lad?  Spaare  moi  life  a 
bit,  wilt  'ee  ?  Have  no  time  for  scrappin'  now." 

"You're  more  useful  alive,  Taffy — just  now,"  replied  Miller, 
without  looking  up.  Doc,  chuckling  coarsely,  polished  the 
drill-head  with  wicked,  smashing  blows.  "Whoosh!"  he 
grunted,  expelling  his  breath  violently  at  each  stroke,  as  he 
brought  the  hammer  down  with  all  his  bulk  behind  it. 
"Whoosh!" 

Far  behind,  the  cook  limped  painfully  in.    Later  he  brought 


THE    LONG   SHIFT  47 

steaming  coffee  and  great  Dutch  ovens  full  of  beef  and  beans. 
The  bellows  worked  unceasingly,  the  wheelbarrow  carried  the 
broken  rock  away.  At  the  front  they  paired  off,  changing  at 
frequent  intervals,  holding  and  striking  alternately.  They 
worked.  .  .  .  But  the  shots  were  frequent,  the  charges  heavy; 
the  giant-powder  fumes — sluggish,  stupefying,  poisonous — 
hung  in  the  air  in  spite  of  the  ventilator,  dragged  on  the 
men's  energies,  dulled  the  onset.  Their  heads  ached  relent 
lessly.  As  each  relay  came  off,  they  hurried  out  to  the  blessed 
pure  air;  and,  thinking  of  the  prisoners,  entombed  and  suffo 
cating,  stumbled  back  again  to  strike  with  all  their  manhood 
behind  each  blow. 

Van,  when  they  went  out  in  the  air,  made  them  wrap  up 
warmly,  lest  their  tortured  muscles  should  stiffen.  Van  sent 
Charlie  to  them  with  food  and  hot  coffee.  Van  brought  water. 
He  was  here,  there,  and  everywhere,  pumping  at  the  bellows, 
mucking  away,  keeping  the  drift  true.  The  little  man  of 
brains  anticipated  every  need ;  brought  powder  or  fuse  already 
cut  and  capped;  saving  a  minute  here,  half  a  minute  there. 
He  loaded  and  fired  the  holes,  sparing  his  men  so  much  of 
the  labor  and  powder  smoke.  He  praised  them,  cheered  them 
on,  kept  their  hearts  up,  voiced  their  pride;  till  each  man 
nerved  himself  to  utmost  effort,  thrilled  to  know  that  solid 
rock  and  stubborn  granite  were  less  enduring  than  his  owi* 
unchanging  will. 

And,  when  he  crept  back  to  Charlie  and  Clovis,  it  was 
Van  who  despised  himself,  whose  heartsick  thought  was  that 
his  feeble  body  unfitted  him  to  do  a  man's  work  on  the  firing- 
line.  ...  So  the  night  wore  on;  and  ever  the  hammers  rang, 
the  drills  bit  deep  j  slowly,  steadily ,  inch  by  inch,  foot  by  foot, 
they  tore  the  prison  wall  away. 

As  he  rested,  Caradoc  goaded  his  disdainful  enemy  with 
taunt  and  slur — "Little  pot,  soon  hot" — and  such  ancestral 
wit.  For  a  long  time  Miller  made  no  answer  to  these  rude 
sallies,  but  the  insults  festered.  "You  know  the  old  saw, 
Doc,"  he  said  at  last,  with  ominous  quiet.  "The  Almighty 
made  some  men  big  and  some  small,  but  Colonel  Colt  evened 
things  up.  Best  think  it  over." 

After  each  shot  the  crews  went  to  tHe  drilling,  leaving  the 
muckers  to  work  out  rock  loosened  by  previous  shots  with 


48  WEST    IS   WEST 

pick  and  gad,  straightening  the  uneven  walls  and  roof  as  best 
they  could.  Their  desperate  haste  invited  disaster.  It  came 
before  dawn.  White  was  holding  for  Williams,  when  a  heavy 
rock  jarred  from  the  roof  and  fell  on  the  striker's  shoulder. 
The  hammer,  glancing  from  the  drill  head,  crushed  the  hold 
er's  hand  to  mangled  flesh.  The  work  stopped.  White  rose 
unsteadily.  "Keep  a-hummin' — keep  the  hammers  going,"  he 
said,  as  he  started  out,  dizzy  and  sick.  Williams,  in  scarce 
less  distress  for  his  unlucky  blow,  followed  him. 

"Bide  a  bit!"  bellowed  Caradoc.  "Harken!  I  hear  sum- 
mat  !  God's  love,  hear  that !  There's  salve  for  thy  hurrt,  lad  ! 
They're  alive,  they're  alive,  I  tell  'ee!  Happen  the  heat's 
drivin'  'em  down  bottom  by  way  o'  the  winze !" 

Tap-tap-tap !  Muffled  and  dull  and  hollow  it  sounded  from 
the  rock  before  them.  Tap-tap-tap!  Doc  snatched  his  ham 
mer  and  thundered  on  the  drill  head.  "They  livin' !"  he 
roared.  "Seven  feet  an'  more  we've  made  this  night,  and  fair 
gettin'  limbered  up  a  bit!" 

"I'll  eat  a  bite  and  go  to  town  after  help,"  said  White,  as 
Van  bandaged  his  hand.  "I'm  no  good  here,  but  I  can  walk. 
I  tell  you  these  men  are  fagged.  I  ought  to  know.  If  you 
get  close  enough  to  drill  a  hole  through,  'twill  be  all.  The 
strain  will  be  over,  and  every  mother's  son'll  drop  in  his  tracks. 
I'll  send  enough  men  from  town  to  tear  out  that  last  ten  feet 
by  the  roots." 

"You  can't,  man.  You're  tired  out  and  suffering.  There 
is  at  least  one  bone  broken  in  your  hand.  You'll  give  out." 

"I — I  wasn't  aiming  to  walk  on  my  hands,  you  know.  Run 
along  now.  I'm  twenty-one  past,  and  it  is  my  job  to  walk  across 
Malibu  Flat  this  day.  If  you  look  across  the  desert  to  San 
Clemente  about  dark,  there'll  be  a  big  light  on  Ghost  Moun 
tain  to  let  you  know  I  made  it.  So-long!"  He  filled  a  can 
teen  and  went  to  do  his  part:  not  the  least  where  each  did 
well. 

The  long  weary  day  dragged  as  they  toiled  at  their  endless 
task.  The  Mexican  lad  loaded  his  patient  burros  with  kegs 
and  went  to  the  spring  for  water.  Before  noon  Van  Atta  was 
on  the  verge  of  collapse.  The  others  forced  him  to  quit  his 
part  in  the  mucking.  "Else  will  us  bind  'ee  handfast,"  ob 
served  Caradoc.  "Happen  us'll  need  thy  brains  yet,  lad.  Will 


THE    LONG    SHIFT  49 

be  there  with  t'  brawn — do  'ee  keep  care  o'  the  only  head  here 
that's  worth  owt."  So  Van,  cursing  and  shamed,  cleaned  out 
the  holes  when  "mud"  clogged  them,  picked  out  the  followers, 
loaded  and  fired  the  holes,  and  sometimes  took  a  short  spell  at 
pumping;  while  Charlie  and  Clovis  stacked  up  no  more  rock, 
for  lack  of  time,  but  wheeled  it  far  down  the  tunnel  and 
dumped  it. 

The  incessant  clangor  of  steel  on  ringing  steel — hammer 
and  hold,  hold  and  hammer — mud!  Clean — change  drills, 
hammer!  Load,  fire — clean  away — room  for  the  hammers! 
The  air  was  hot,  foul,  and  intolerable,  from  candles,  steaming 
breath  and  dripping  bodies,  dust  and  powder  fumes.  Hour 
after  hour  they  drove  home  the  assault;  stripped  to  the  waist, 
soaked  and  streaked  with  sweat  and  dust;  with  fingers 
cramped  from  gripping  on  hammer  and  drill;  with  finger- 
joints  that  cracked  and  bled,  wrists  bruised  and  swollen  from 
jarring  blows.  The  rough  and  calloused  hands  were  blister 
ing  now;  eyes  were  red-rimmed  and  sunken,  faces  haggard 
and  drawn;  back,  muscles  and  joints  strained  and  sore;  worse 
than  all,  the  powder  headache  throbbed  at  their  temples  with 
torture  intolerable.  .  .  .  But  the  brave  music  of  clashing 
steel  rang  steadily,  clear,  unfaltering,  where  flesh  and  blood 
flung  itself  at  the  everlasting  hill. 

A  muffled  roar  came  from  the  heart  of  the  rock.  The  pris 
oners  were  working  toward  them. 

"That's  bad,"  said  Van.  "They'll  make  the  air  worse  with 
every  shot — and  they  can't  hit  our  drift  short  of  a  miracle. 
They  are  lessening  their  chances." 

"I  don't  rightly  know  that,"  said  Caradoc.  "Was  on  the 
last  shift  in  Gallery  Foar,  myself.  Was  a  horse  there,  I 
moind,  hard  as  the  Gaates  o'  Hell.  Happen  they'll  smash  that 
up  and  save  us  mony  the  weary  blow." 

The  terrible  strain  began  to  tell.  But  Caradoc  and  his  in 
domitable  foe  kept  the  heartbreaking  pace  hour  after  hour. 
Price  was  deadly  sick,  bleeding  from  nose  and  mouth;  Wil 
liams'  hurt  shoulder  was  stiffened  till  striking  was  out  of  the 
question  for  him.  So  these  two  held.  The  others  kept  on 
pluckily,  but  their  strength  was  leaving  them.  Inexorable 
Nature  was  extorting  punishment  for  her  outraged  laws:  the 
end  was  near,  of  men  or  task.  The  shifts  were  timed  no 


50  WEST   IS   iVVEST 

longer.  Each  man  kept  up  the  savage  hammering  till  he  felt 
his  strength  fail;  and  as  he  stepped  back,  breathless,  a  silent 
spectre  behind  him  rose  up  and  took  his  place. 

From  the  steel  bars  Jones  fashioned  a  set  of  twenty-four 
drills,  with  all  his  cunning  and  loving  care  on  every  point; 
a  hair's-breadth  difference  between  the  bits,  the  longest  drill 
twelve  feet,  its  bit  barely  wider  than  the  octagonal  steel;  he 
welded  rods  of  iron  for  spoons  of  suitable  length*.  They 
made  the  last  few  feet  of  the  drift  wider  and  higher  than  the 
rest,  to  have  ample  room  for  double  drilling.  At  sundown 
they  set  off  the  last  shots.  They  had  torn  out  fourteen  feet; 
they  must  drill  a  hole  through  the  eleven-foot  wall  that  re 
mained.  They  had  scarcely  started  when  Clovis  came,  pour 
ing  out  a  torrent  of  voluble  Spanish.  A  fire  blazed  on  Ghost 
Mountain;  help  was  coming. 

One  thing  was  left  to  fear.  Thrice  they  had  heard  the  muf 
fled  shots  from  within.  Since  then  there  had  been  no  sign. 
Were  the  prisoners  dead,  or  had  they  seen  the  unwisdom  of 
further  exhaustion  of  the  air? 

"They'll  be  too  far  gone  to  work,  hours  before  they  actually 
suffocate,"  said  Van.  "We'll  be  in  time,  please  God !" 

They  called  up  every  reserve  that  pride  or  hope  or  fear 
could  bring.  Two  men  struck  at  once,  the  hammers  follow 
ing  each  other  so  swiftly  that  it  seemed  impossible  for  the 
holder  to  turn  the  drill  between  blows. 

"Scant  mercy  on  they  beasties  this  night,"  said  Price. 
"They'll  coom  to  t'hill-foot  in  foar  hours.  Near  two  they'll 
need  to  win  oop  t'hill — 'tis  mortal  steep,  an'  they  beasties'll 
be  jaded  sore.  Will  be  in  season  for  t'  Graveyard  shift." 

"Not  so — coom  midnight  will  be  full  soon.  'Tis  a  sandy 
desert  and  a  weary  hill  by  night." 

"Be't  midnight,  then.  Williams,  moi  son,  canst  hold  t'drill 
alone?  I  be  fair  rested  oop  by  now,  and  can  pound  a  bit. 
Us'll  burn  no  more  powder,  an'  t'air  will  clear  oop  ere  long." 

"Good  for  you,  Cousin  Jock!"  said  Miller  heartily.  By 
tacit  consent  Miller  and  Caradoc  worked  together.  It  de 
pended  on  them — and  they  knew  it.  Shoulder  to  shoulder, 
blow  for  blow,  they  set  their  faces  grimly  to  such  work  as  few 
are  called  to  do. 

Neither  Charlie  nor  Van  Atta  could  be  trusted  to  hold — 


THE   LONG   SHIFT  51 

for  them  to  strike  would  be  simply  loss  of  time.  The  hole 
must  be  driven  absolutely  true,  or  the  drill  would  bind,  and 
they  would  have  to  begin  again.  At  intervals  one  of  the 
others  would  hold,  giving  Williams  a  few  minutes'  respite  to 
straighten  his  aching  back  and  his  cramped  and  stiffened  fin 
gers.  Van  Atta  cleaned  the  hole  and  called  the  depth.  Ten 
inches ;  twenty — thirty — fifty — "Sixty  inches !"  he  called  ex- 
ultingly.  "An  inch  every  two  minutes,  after  all  these  hours ! 
The  world  can't  beat  it!" 

The  drill  "jumped"  with  crash  and  jar;  Miller's  hammer 
just  missed  Williams'  hand,  and  Doc's,  closely  following,  was 
checked  in  mid-air  by  a  violent  effort.  The  holder  drew  the 
drill  and  turned  the  point  to  the  light.  An  inch  was  broken 
from  the  bit;  any  succeeding  drill  would  batter  and  break  at 
once ;  the  hole  was  lost. 

A  despairing  silence:  Williams  fell  against  the  wall  and  hid 
his  eyes.  Doc's  head  dropped  over  on  his  hairy  chest.  Mil 
ler's  face  was  ghastly.  .  .  .  Van  Atta  rose  weakly,  picked  up 
the  starter,  sank  on  one  knee,  with  his  face  to  the  breast; 
holding  the  drill  in  place  beside  the  lost  hole,  just  above  his 
shoulder,  his  eyes  on  the  bit,  he  waited.  A  second — and  Mil 
ler's  hammer  crashed  down.  Clang!  Clang!  Clang! 

"God's  blood!"  Red  with  shame,  the  giant  sprang  up  and 
showered  down  blow  on  mighty  blow.  A  murmur  ran  around 
the  circle ;  the  little  band  closed  grimly  to  the  final  test.  Jones 
shaped  the  broken  drill  again  and  hurried  back  to  bear  his  part 
in  the  renewed  attack.  The  two  enemies  were  doing  the  work. 
The  others  worked  gallantly — but  the  leaders  were  making 
five  inches  to  their  two.  What  matter,  where  each  gave  his 
best  ?  Five  inches — ten — thirty — forty ! 

At  fifty  inches  Price  gave  way,  totally  unable  to  do  more. 
When  Caradoc  and  Miller  stepped  back,  breathless,  Jones 
and  Davis  tapped  away  doggedly,  but  there  was  no  force  to 
their  blows. 

The  big  Welshman  had  bitten  his  lip;  blood  trickled  from 
his  mouth  as  he  grinned  at  his  mate.  'Tis  oop  to  us  now.  A 
rare  team  we  make — and  good  for  them  beyond !" 

Miller  nodded.  There  was  no  contempt  in  his  glance  now. 
Truly,  this  was  a  man;  fit  to  stand  to  a  king's  back,  though 
he  fought  for  his  crown — strong  of  heart  and  arm — this  man 


52  WEST    IS   WEST 

he  had  dared  despise.  Foot  to  foot,  blow  for  blow,  unyield 
ing,  unswerving,  they  stood  up  to  the  tremendous  task.  Sixty 
— seventy !  Davis  and  Jones  made  a  last  desperate  spurt  and 
fell  back,  exhausted,  utterly  forspent.  Seventy-five! — Miller 
and  Hughes! 

They  planted  their  feet  firmly  and  looked  into  each  other's 
eyes  as  they  began  again.  Miller's  hammer  kept  the  appalling 
pace,  gave  no  sign  that  his  strength  was  failing — ebbing  away 
with  every  blow.  .  .  .  Somewhere,  out  in  the  far-off  world, 
there  was  music  and  light  and  laughter.  Perhaps  he,  too,  had 
known  pleasure,  running  streams  that  laughed  in  the  sunshine, 
the  free  winds  of  heaven — youth — love — rest.  It  might  have 
been  so — long,  long  since.  He  did  not  know.  Life  had  dwin 
dled  to  these  narrowing,  flinty  walls,  this  dim-litten  circle, 
with  its  wavering  center  of  steel  where  they  must  strike — 
strike  hard  !  He  and  Doc — good  old  Doc — brave  Doc !  .  .  . 
Something  stirred  in  the  shadows  behind — far-off,  meaning 
less  voices  reached  him  over  the  rising  clangor  of  steel.  .  .  . 
Men,  perhaps.  If  they  would  go  away.  .  .  .  They  drew  his 
reeling  senses  from  the  shining  steel,  that  he  must  strike — 
strike  hard!  Eighty — eighty-five — ninety! 

Without  warning,  Miller  pitched  over  on  his  face,  uncon 
scious.  Their  best  was  down.  What  lay  in  the  silence  be 
yond  that  granite  wall? 

Caradoc  leaned  heavily  against  the  wall  while  they  bore  his 
fallen  foe  away.  "Look  to  him — 'tis  a  man!"  he  said.  There 
was  no  triumph  in  his  tones.  He  staggered  forward. 
"Whoosh!"  he  grunted,  as  he  struck  out.  "Whoosh!" 

His  eyes  were  sunken  in  his  head,  his  blotched  and  purple 
face  was  fallen  in;  his  sobbing  breath  whistled  between  his 
clenched  teeth,  his  breast  heaved  almost  to  bursting;  but  his 
mighty  shoulders  drove  home  the  drill.  Ninety-five  inches — 
a  hundred !  And  still  that  tireless  hammer  rose  and  fell ! 

"Easy— mud— mud  !"  yelled  Price,  at  the  drill.  "It's  done ! 
We've  struck  their  drift!" 

A  dozen  light  taps,  and  the  drill  leaped  through.  The  in 
credible  had  happened.  They  had  struck  the  side  wall  of  the 
counter-drift  made  by  the  prisoners  on  pure  guess.  They 
pulled  out  the  drill.  A  rush  of  foul,  sickening  air  followed. 
Price  shouted  down  the  hole.  A  mumbled  response  came 


THE    LONG    SHIFT  53 

back.  Van  Atta  thrust  the  nozzle  of  the  hose  onto  the  hole, 
stuffed  his  handkerchief  around  it  to  keep  it  tight,  and  ran 
down  the  tunnel.  Halfway  out  he  met  Charlie. 

"Run!"  he  gasped.  "We're  through — they're  alive;  all  of 
'em !  Pump — pump  hard !" 

Any  San  Clemente  man  will  tell  you  the  rest.     Except  this : 

"Miller,"  said  Caradoc,  "wast  roight.  I  robbed  thy  camp. 
Will  take  nowt  more  o'  thine — nor  no  man's,  if  so  be  I  can 
think  betoimes.  T'is  an  old  habit  wi'  me.  But  'tis  a  shameful 
thing  to  do — for  him  as  stood  in  moi  shoes  this  night.  Lad 
.  .  .  wilt  shake  hands  wi'  a  thief?" 

"You  can't  steal  anything  of  mine,  Doc.  What's  mine  is 
yours.  God!  How  you  worked — and  were  good  for  more, 
when  I  fell  over  like  a  baby." 

"Toosh !  Goeslong,  moi  son !  Didst  thy  part,  little  Hop-o'- 
moi-thumb.  Pounded  steel  two  hours  afore  e'er  I  began* 
Shoulds't  ha*  been  a  Welshman!" 


CHAPTER    II 

CHEERFUL    LAND 

MR.  EMIL  JAMES  rode  down  the  main  street  of  San  Clemente 
in  the  bright  mid-morning  sun.  From  open  doors  a  flourish  of 
friendly  hands  kept  pace  with  him.  Emil  waved  gay  return. 
Tippytoes,  absurd  but  admirable  horse,  cocked  ears  to  left  or 
right  at  each  open  door  and  tossed  his  forelock  in  cheerful 
salutation  of  his  own. 

Mr.  Emil  James,  the  bright  sun,  the  street  of  open  doors — 
these  deserve  separate  consideration.  Emil  was  a  tall  man 
with  a  long,  serious  face,  only  prevented  from  large  mirth  by 
reasons  of  state.  His  eyes  were  tranquil,  wide,  deep-blue  and 
steady;  he  wore  a  grizzly-gray  mustache  and  a  long,  thin, 
straight  nose.  The  first  was  trimmed  and  disciplined,  a  mus 
tache  that  knew  its  place;  and  Mr.  James  kept  on  intimate 
terms  with  the  second.  It  was  his  habit,  in  perplexity  or  de 
liberation,  to  look  down  his  nose  for  counsel.  He  did  not 
squint,  he  merely  glanced:  a  feat  possible  only  because  his 
eyes  were  so  wide  apart  and  his  nose  so  very  long.  For  the 
rest,  he  was  a  youngerly  man  who  looked,  and  may  have  been, 
from  thirty  to  forty  or  fifty. 

He  rode  loose-reined  and  gently  swaying,  irresistibly  giv 
ing  the  effect  of  one  who  sits  at  cheerful  ease  upon  a  shaded 
porch  with  luxurious  feet  upon  a  railing;  relaxing,  after 
stirring  hurly-burly,  to  a  little  well-earned  repose. 

The  blue  eyes  of  Mr.  James,  twinkling  deep  beneath  that 
$haded  brim,  made  inevitable  the  porch- thought,  just  as  his 
loose-limbed  comfort  suggested  the  oldest  and  best-beloved  of 
easy-chairs.  The  gait  was  a  walk,  but  it  was  a  swinging  walk, 
roguish,  jaunty  and  whimsical;  a  walk  which  was  appar 
ently  on  the  point  of  breaking  into  a  jig;  a  knowing  walk, 
cheerful  and  alert,  plainly  expecting  some  brisk  adventure  at 
any  turn  and  confident  of  a  creditable  part  in  such  joyous 
hazard  as  might  arise. 

Quite  spontaneously  and  of  his  own  motion,  the  Tippytoes 

54 


CHEERFUL   LAND  55 

horse  has  crowded  into  the  story  with  Mr.  James ;  which  is  as 
it  should  be.  For  this  was  a  land  of  a  strong  white  sun  and 
cloudless  skies,  therefore  of  scant  water  and  vast  distances; 
where  a  horse  and  his  rider  are  one. 

No  bully's  horse  ever  met  the  world  with  such  friendly 
eyes  as  Tippytoes;  no  bigot's  horse  would  dare  such  rakish 
impudence  of  bearing;  no  weakling's  horse  could  ever  manage 
that  joyous  swagger.  With  every  careless,  confident  line  and 
motion,  Tippytoes  proclaimed  his  assurance  that  he  carried 
a  man. 

That  bright  sun  vouched  for  Emirs  broad  hat-brim  and 
made  it  credible.  The  great  mountains  made  soft  that  hat- 
brim  that  it  might  be  turned  back  when  he  rode  in  their  cool 
and  friendly  shelter;  just  as  the  long  dun  reaches  of  Malibu 
Flat  made  soft  that  hat-brim,  that  it  might  bend  to  the  strong 
winds  which  inhabit  such  dim  immensities. 

Wherever  the  eye  might  turn  it  fell  on  great  mountains,  even 
when  you  woke  in  the  starlit  night:  mountains  of  all  colors, 
of  colors  that  changed  with  the  changing  hours,  crimson-edged 
against  the  rising  sun  or  black  against  the  dawn ;  gray,  brown 
or  blue-black  of  morning  hours,  dwindled  and  dim  in  the 
blaze  of  noon,  neutral  and  smudged. 

They  were  colors  and  shapes  that  changed  and  flowed  with 
every  change  of  angle  or  distance.  Those  work-day  grays  or 
browns  melted  with  the  miles  to  strong  and  nameless  hues — 
rich,  warm,  crude,  barbaric.  But  if  you  looked  westward  in 
the  late  afternoon  to  those  raw  and  gaudy  hills,  the  cool,  deep 
shadows  were  trembling  lilac,  edged  with  rose  and  sparkled 
with  gold-dust;  the  far-seen  hills  were  purple  or  misty  blue; 
they  flamed  in  the  magic  sunset  to  iridescent  opal  and  all  the 
sea-shell  splendor  of  dreams:  they  rose  high  in  the  iron  twi 
light,  mighty  and  magnified,  serene  with  promise  and  comfort 
and  refuge. — "I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills,  from 
whence  cometh  my  help." 

On  Emil's  right  hand,  the  silent  levels  of  Malibu  Flat  lay 
spectral  and  somber,  rising  from  northern  nothingness  and 
haze,  stretching  on  and  on  across  the  world,  fading  again  to 
nothingness  in  the  south. 

Across  the  desert,  dim  and  far,  the  Continental  Divide 
rimmed  out  the  west — a  long  wall,  uneven  and  unbroken,  range 


56  WEST    IS    WEST 

after  bristling  range  in  a  linked  and  welded  chain:  the  pur 
ple  island-cones  of  Datil,  the  nearer  Hueco,  the  low  red  blaze 
of  Red  Mesa,  the  blue  Malibu,  Copa  de  Oro.  This  particular 
vertebra  in  the  backbone  of  the  Continent  was  known  locally 
as  Malibu  Range,  taking  its  name  from  the  Malibu  proper. 
Jointed  and  socketed  with  it,  the  Black  Range  made  a  laven 
der  line  along  the  south. 

Straight  across,  where  the  Malibu  was  blue  beyond  the 
desert,  thin,  tenuous  silhouettes  of  palest  amethyst  peered 
dim  and  ghostly  over  the  Malibu  wall:  the  double  peaks  of 
San  Quentin,  a  long  day  further  in  the  western  deeps. 

Near  by,  at  Emil's  back,  the  foursquare  bulk  of  Pinetop 
mountain  gloomed  above  the  north  and  the  east:  so  near,  the 
pine  trees  on  the  crest  showed  plain  against  the  sky-line,  inch- 
long  and  feather-slight. 

Nearer,  the  high  sharp  cone  of  San  Clemente  Peak  tow 
ered  at  his  left:  San  Clemente  Gap  was  notched  deep  beneath 
it.  And  from  that  Gap,  San  Clemente  Draw  made  a  steep 
semicircle  around  the  base  of  Ghost  Mountain,  where  tunnels 
gophered  and  mine  dumps  sprawled,  where  trail  and  road  zig 
zagged  doubtfully  to  derrick  and  dump. 

Close  beyond  Ghost  Mountain  and  high  above  it,  upleaping 
from  illimitable  chasms  between,  the  magic  crest  of  Fantasia 
Range  swung  across  the  sky  with  rush  and  onsweep,  dominat 
ing  day  and  night  and  dream. 

There  were  those  who  found  these  vast  horizons  depressing 
and  desolate,  who  took  no  healing  of  the  hills,  who  miscalled 
that  bright-cheering  sun  as  a  glaring  sun,  a  flaming  sun  in  a 
copper  sky:  so  dull  and  gray  their  wonted  skies,  so  leaden, 
sullen  and  unkind. 

Not  San  Clemente.  San  Clemente  found  in  these  great 
spaces  the  lure  of  hope,  new  ventures,  unguessed  delights; 
knew  that  kindly  sun  as  the  giver  of  life,  oppressor  of  gloom 
and  despair,  the  underwriter  of  joy. 

It  might  be  admitted  by  San  Clemente,  without  prejudice, 
that  the  sun  was  warmish,  perhaps,  around  midday  or  there 
abouts.  But  San  Clemente  had  an  assortment  of  sound  rea 
sons  to  fear  no  more  the  heat  o*  the  sun. 

First,  the  cowmen.  They  worked  like  demons  of  the  pit  at 
roundup  time,  cool  spring  or  cool  fall.  But  cattle  could  not 


CHEERFUL    LAND  57 

be  worked  in  summer.  It  was  too  hot — for  the  cattle.  Nor  in 
winter,  which  was  too  cold — for  the  cattle.  These  seasons 
were  therefore  set  apart  by  all  cattlemen  as  a  half-life  of 
gentle  divertisement. 

Ten-mule  teams,  twenty-mule  teams,  hauled  ore  through  the 
Gap,  and  across  the  eastern  desert,  variously  known  as  Mag- 
dalena  Valley  or  Magdalena  Plain.  Ridgepole,  terminus  of  a 
railroad  of  sorts,  branch  of  a  jerkwater  branch,  was  their 
journey's  end.  They  brought  back  supplies  and  machinery 
on  the  return  trip. 

These  freighters — Mexicans  all — drove  by  night,  as  a  matter 
of  course.  The  round  trip  took  six  days.  Monday  morning, 
load  with  ore  and  pull  up  to  San  Clemente  ranch,  the  water 
nearest  the  Gap:  cross  the  Gap  at  twilight,  then  a  long  night 
drive,  nooning  from  eight  to  five  in  the  middle  of  Magdalena 
Plains  on  Tuesday,  Ridgepole  at  Wednesday  breakfast  time, 
ore  in  the  cars  Wednesday  night,  load  up  return  freight  on 
Thursday  morning,  unload  it  at  San  Clemente  Saturday  night: 
Sunday  for  monte  and  other  delights  of  home.  Freighters 
thought  of  the  sun  largely  as  a  reliable  sedative  and  aid  to 
sleep. 

The  miners  worked  underground.  This  statement  might  be 
classed  as  a  truism:  but  so  many  of  us  are  unfamiliar  with  that 
underworld,  that  the  story  hopes  it  may  be  pardoned  for  under 
scoring  so  obvious  a  fact.  The  sun  concerned  miners  chiefly 
as  something  which  made  shade  pleasant. 

The  miners  were  Cornishmen,  Welshmen  and  a  few  Irish — 
even  a  few  Americans.  San  Clemente,  it  will  be  seen,  was 
cosmopolitan.  They  worked  in  three  shifts,  from  seven  in  the 
morning  to  three  in  the  afternoon,  from  three  to  eleven,  from 
eleven  at  night  till  seven  in  the  morning:  eight  hours'  work, 
eight  hours'  sleep,  eight  hours  for  their  very  own,  to  be  squan 
dered  or  banked.  Every  two  weeks  they  changed  shifts  in 
rotation. 

Business  San  Clemente  transacted  that  busy-ness  within 
doors.  The  leisure  of  San  Clemente,  the  getting-on  people, 
the  up-and-coming  people,  the  eastern  contingent — capitalists, 
promoters,  pleasure-seekers  and  health-seekers — dwelt  mag 
nificently  in  "Chautauqua,"  braced  and  morally  uplifted  by 
straight  streets.  The  story  believes  that  the  Chautauquans 


58  WEST    IS   WEST 

themselves  referred  to  their  rightangular  suburb  as  "the  Nottl 
Side."  Needless  to  state,  the  Chautauquans  were  independent 
alike  of  exertion  and  of  the  sun.  As  a  whole,  San  Clemente 
was  nocturnal  of  habit  and  swore  by  the  sun.  The  newei 
transients  did  otherwise. 

Ridgepole  stage-drivers  were  exceptions.  The  stage  arrived 
at  Ridgepole,  and  left  that  gateway  town,  to  suit  the  con 
venience  of  a  mixed  train  which  frequently  made  connections 
at  Saragossa  with  north-bound  and  south-bound  passengei 
trains,  which  in  turn  were  timed  for  close  connection  with  the 
haughty  Flyers  on  the  main  lines  at  Albuquerque  or  El  Paso. 
Because  of  this  arbitrary  and  thrice-removed  fixing  of  hours, 
the  Ridgepole  stage  went  through  by  daylight.  Hueco  and 
Datil  stages,  running  respectively  west  and  northwest  from 
San  Clemente,  were  night  lines. 

The  street  of  open  doors  was  a  long  street,  a  leisurely 
street,  a  straggling  street:  above  all,  a  tolerant  street.  The 
old  wagon  road  followed  closely  the  semicircle  of  San  Clem 
ente  Draw  around  the  foot  of  Ghost  Mountain;  the  new  and 
tolerant  street  made  the  same  wide  circling.  Why  not?  Why 
be  needlessly  precise  and  prim  and  rectilinear?  The  road  was 
a  fine  old  road,  its  history,  trail  and  road,  such  as  the  street 
delighted  to  honor.  Besides,  it  was  a  shallow  dig  to  water, 
near  the  draw:  why  go  higher  to  dig  deeper?  Besides,  again, 
Sundown  Ridge — low,  rolling  and  broken — paralleled  at  once 
the  winding  draw,  the  old  road,  and  the  flowing  lines  of  Ghost 
Mountain.  A  curving  street  made  harmony  with  such  environ 
ment;  a  straight  street  would  be  a  jarring  discord;  and  the 
street  had  no  mind  to  make  itself  unpleasant,  thank  you.  The 
very  name  of  it  was  Roundabout:  with  such  a  name,  how  could 
a  street  be  built  straight? 

That  the  doors  of  this  tolerant  street  were  open  was  not 
altogether  due  to  the  warmth  of  the  climate.  The  story  hopes 
that  so  much  will  have  been  guessed:  that  this  tolerant  and 
whimsical  street  was  also  a  highly  allegorical  street:  that  the 
open  doors  were  in  some  part  a  symbol  and  a  sign  of  friend 
liness  and  welcome.  If  it  has  not  been  guessed,  it  is  here  ex 
pressly  stated. 

But  if  Roundabout  Street  was  friendly,  it  had  its  own  reti 
cence;  each  house  was  set  well  back  from  the  road.  Super- 


CHEERFUL    LAND  59 

ficial  people  thought  this  was  because  of  the  dust.  But  each 
house  also  kept  at  a  generous  distance  from  its  neighbors:  and 
the  cause  of  that  was  not  dust.  It  was  a  large  desire  for 
independence,  privacy  and  elbow  room. 

At  the  upper  end  of  the  street,  nearest  the  gateway  to  the 
eastern  desert,  stood  the  immemorial  San  Clemente  Ranch, 
hidden  and  fenced  by  deep  and  impenetrable  shade  of  ancient 
cottonwoods. 

The  long  row  of  one-storied  rooms,  the  long,  low  stables  and 
the  corrals,  were  built  in  one  continuous  wall,  forming  a  great 
quadrangle  of  massive  adobe.  All  windows  and  doors  faced 
on  the  enclosed  courtyards.  The  outer  walls,  house,  stable, 
and  corrals,  were  four  feet  thick  for  as  high  as  a  man's  head. 
The  upper  wall  was  two  feet  thick,  pierced  near  the  top  by 
loopholes.  The  two-foot  bench  made  within  by  the  offset  was 
for  riflemen  to  stand  upon  in  war.  In  peace  it  made  a  desir 
able  shelf,  that  took  near  to  four  hundred  yards  to  complete 
the  square.  This  had  been  a  Gibraltar  among  ranches  in  the 
old  Apache  days,  a  virgin  fortress  famed  by  interminable  songs 
of  liquid,  feminine,  soft-syllabled  Spanish. 

On  the  western  side  once  swung  a  mighty  gate  of  double 
valves,  bullet-proof,  framed  of  hewn  logs  from  Pinetop.  En 
tering,  in  those  old  days,  you  turned  at  a  right  angle  and  rode 
down  a  titanic  corridor,  between  walls  ten  feet  high ;  to  where, 
beyond  the  reach  of  any  slantwise  bullet  through  the  outer 
gate,  a  second  gateway  turned  through  the  inner  wall. 

The  old  ranch  had  long  since  been  made  base  and  headquar 
ters  for  the  freight  teams,  and  was  now  named  anew  as  "Chi 
huahua."  Opposite  the  old  outer  portal,  the  inner  wall  was 
pierced  for  a  straight  road  and  now  crumbled  to  unrepaired 
decay:  the  massive  war-doors  were  long  discarded  for  light- 
swinging  peaceful  gates  that  a  child  might  open. 

Through  freighters,  too,  for  whom  San  Clemente  was  a  way 
station,  made  this  a  camping  station  and  half-way  house.  Their 
schedules  were  semi-occasional:  their  westwise  roads  radiated 
fan-wise  from  San  Clemente  Gap ;  they  brought  from  the  long 
Malibu  Range  what  ore  was  rich  enough  to  stand  the  long 
haul;  in  clipping-time,  great  bags  of  mohair  from  San  Todos, 
wool  from  Fuentes. 

Above  the  song-haunted   cottonwoods   rose  the  high   bell- 


60  WEST    IS    WEST 

tower  of  San  Clemente  Church — old,  but  younger  than  the 
ranch  by  near  a  century.  "The  groves  were  God's  first  tem 
ples":  mass  and  marriage  and  solemn  service  for  the  dead 
had  been  held  under  those  old  trees  for  generations  before 
ever  the  church  was  built. 

On  Roundabout  Street,  on  the  Plaza  of  Business-town,  on 
the  low  hills  of  compact  Chautauqua,  the  comparative  age  of 
any  building  was  accurately  recorded  by  the  size  of  its  tribu 
tary  cottonwood  trees ;  swiftest  of  growth  of  all  shade  trees, 
dearest  to  the  desert  dweller. 

Because  the  men  outnumbered  the  women  by  about  three  or 
thirteen  to  one,  San  Clemente  ran  largely  to  boarding  houses. 
For  the  same  reason,  the  town  supported  a  surprisingly  good 
hotel,  The  Ugly  Duckling,  which  took  up  nearly  all  the  south 
side  of  the  Plaza. 

The  proprietor  of  the  Duckling  was  a  sentimental  Dane; 
hence  the  name,  a  compliment  at  once  to  his  greatest  com 
patriot  and  to  his  own  skill  as  purveyor  of  comfort.  Thirty 
years  back,  half  of  San  Clemente  was  persistent  to  know  the 
young  Dane  as  Andy  Anderson:  the  other  half  clung  stub 
bornly  to  Ole  Oleson.  They  had  compromised  on  Oleander. 
The  young  Dane  had  grown  to  be  an  old  American  now;  as 
Oleander  he  was  pillar  and  landmark  in  San  Clemente;  but 
his  own  name  was  a  forgotten  thing. 

The  Duckling  was  built  of  adobe.  It  was  one  story  high 
and  one  room  wide:  nobody  knew  exactly  how  long  it  was. 
Upended,  it  would  have  made  a  notable  skyscraper.  Besides 
the  hotel,  the  building  housed  the  Post  Office,  the  Telephone 
Exchange,  three  Stage-lines  and  sundry  offices  of  mining  com 
panies,  and  the  like.  Even  so,  the  Duckling  bedrooms  had 
never  all  been  filled  at  once. 

The  long  shady  verandah  of  the  Duckling  was,  ex  officio, 
the  San  Clemente  Club.  Even  at  this  early  hour  a  dozen  men 
utilized  that  shady  comfort:  half  as  many  saddled  horses,  with 
dangling  reins,  visited  together  under  the  Duckling  cotton- 
woods.  Tippytoes  slanted  his  eager  ears  that  way. 

Emil  folded  his  hands  on  the  saddle-horn  and  regarded  the 
verandah  benevolently. 

"This  is  a  fine  bunch,"  he  said. 

The  bunch  gave  vigorous  and  varied  assent  to  this  propo 
sition  :  except  Keough,  who  dented  his  nose  in  sneering  silence, 


CHEERFUL   LAND  61 

and  Old  Man  Gibson,  who  snorted.  It  was  a  representative 
gathering,  miners  and  freighters  aside.  First  were  young 
Billy  Armstrong  and  "Pretty  Pierre"  Hines  of  Chautauqua. 
For  the  cattle  interests  were  Owen  Quinlivenj  half  owner  of 
the  Double  Dee  brand,  a  huge,  brindled,  freckle-faced  ex- 
miner;  Steve  Thompson,  smooth-faced  and  bright-eyed,  who 
gave  the  Hook-and-Ladder;  and  burly,  surly  Gibson — Old 
Man  Gibson  of  the  Berenda.  The  townsmen  were  represented 
by  Cox,  editor  of  The  Inland  Empire;  black-browed  Keough 
of  the  telephone  exchange ;  Baker,  manager  of  the  three  stage 
lines ;  Max  Goldenburg  of  the  New  York  Store ;  serious,  flaxen- 
bearded,  square-faced  Oleander  himself;  and  the  quiet  profes 
sional  gentleman  known  as  "Monte."  The  twelfth  chair- 
warmer  was  Ed  Dowlin,  unclassified;  lumberman,  cattleman, 
mine  owner  and  Free  Lance. 

"I  hear,"  said  Emil,  addressing  Keough,  "that  you  had  a 
right  smart  doings  over  on  the  Malibu  last  week.  Got  out  of 
it  lucky,  didn't  you?" 

"You  may  think  so,"  said  Keough  bitterly.    "I  fail  to  see  it." 

Emil  took  counsel  with  his  nose. 

"Why,  you  got  'em  all  out  alive  and  unhurt,  didn't  you?" 

"Including  the  fool  that  set  off  the  powder."  Keough's 
white  and  bloodless  face  flamed  to  sudden  red.  Emil  ex 
changed  a  glance  with  Dowlin.  Dowlin  arched  an  eyebrow. 

"He  makes  me  sick,  Keough  does.  All  he  thinks  of  is  the 
mone^  5«c  lost."  Quinliven  spat  the  words  from  his  mouth :  he 
had  been  trapped  in  mines  himself. 

"Get  down  and  look  at  your  saddle,"  suggested  Billy.  "May 
be  somebody'll  buy  you  a  cigar.  Ed,  you  do  it." 

Emil  shook  his  head.  "Just  now  I'm  looking  for  that  new 
N  8  person.  Anybody  know  where  he  is?" 

Oleander  jerked  a  thumb  over  his  shoulder.  "Out  in  the 
corral,  getting  Pat  to  show  him  how  to  throw  a  diamond 
hitch." 

"Some  boy,'*  said  Steve  approvingly.  "Yesterday  he  pes 
tered  Spencer  into  taking  him  all  through  the  Torpedo  and 
had  him  explain  all  about  minin',  from  A  to  Izzard.  Day  be 
fore  that  he  borrowed  that  little  Redlegs  outlaw  hawse  of 
mine  and  started  in  to  learn  how  to  stay  topside,  and  how 
about  it.  Perseverin'  cuss !  I'd  be  ashamed  to  say  how  many 
times  that  little  roan  devil  piled  him.  I  took  'em  over  in  a 


62  WEST    IS    WEST 

sandy  draw,  so  there  wasn't  much  chance  for  the  kid  to  get 
hurt,  and  he  stuck  to  it  till  he  could  ride  him  slick.  The  old 
scoundrel  was  pitchin'  right  peart,  too.  John  Sayles,  he  got 
skinned  up  some,  but  he  sure  was  enjoyin'  himself  a  heap. 
He'll  make  a  hand." 

"He  came  also  to  me  for  a  leetle  eenstruction,"  said  Monte 
diffidently.  "He  ees  ver'  deeligent  es-cholar." 

"Well,  now,  this  is  very  gratifying,"  said  Emil,  "and  goes 
to  show  that  you  never  can  tell.  Why,  when  he  climbed  out 
of  the  stage  in  them  dizzy  duds,  I  didn't  nowise  pick  him  for 
a  live  one.  Very  next  day  I  found  him  up  on  the  wagon  road 
learnin'  how  to  hold  a  drill.  My  mistake.  I'll  go  get  him." 

He  raised  his  bridle  hand  and  rode  on  into  the  corral. 
There,  flushed  and  perspiring,  John  Sayles  Watterson,  Jr., 
late  of  Princeton  University,  was  engaged  in  packing  two 
empty  goods-boxes  upon  a  patient  and  sleepy  gray  burro.  In 
this  design  he  was  aided  and  abetted  by  old  Pat  Nunn. 

'  'Lo,  Pat!     Howdy,  young  man!" 

"Oh,  good-day!     Mr.  James,  isn't  it?" 

"Hello,  yourself!     Anything  wanted?"  said  old  Pat. 

"A  few  words  with  the  middle-aged  one,  poco  tiempo.  No 
hurry;  go  through  with  your  lesson." 

"There!  That's  solid !  Good  hitch  for  heavy  stuff,  the  dia 
mond  is,"  said  Old  Pat,  a  little  later.  "But  it  takes  two  men 
to  throw  it.  You  get  Emil  to  show  you  the  Lost  Cowboy. 
And  a  plain  N-hitch  is  good  enough  for  just  a  roll  of  bedding 
and  such.  Here's  your  man,  Emil.  Go  to  him.  I'll  drag  it." 

"Nothing  confidential,  Pat — stick  around.  Now  then,  young 
man,  I  understand  you're  going  to  make  a  visit  to  the  N  8 
ranch,  and  are  waiting  for  a  chance  to  get  out  there.  Is  that 
right?" 

"Right  as  rain." 

"All  aboard,  then.  I  am  now  organizing  a  little  expedition 
for  the  pursuit  of  happiness,  and  you  are  hereby  invited  to 
make  one  of  two.  I'm  the  other  one." 

"Done  with  you.  How  do  we  go?  Horseback?  When  do 
we  start?" 

"We  go  in  the  slickest  little  covered  spring  wagon  you  ever 
rolled  your  eagle  eye  over,"  said  Emil,  "and  we  start  from  my 
place  soon  this  evenin' — about  half-past  four.  Horseback 
across  Malibu  Flat  is  too  long  a  trip  for  a  new  beginner." 


CHEERFUL    LAND  63 

"Yours  truly,  and  thank  you  kindly/'  said  John  Sayles. 
"I'll  hire  a  rig  from  the  hotel  to  take  me  and  my  traps  to 
your  ranch/' 

"Hire  a  pig  with  three  long  tushes !"  said  Emil.  "Borrow 
yourself  a  horse  from  some  one.  Pat  will  loan  you  a  horse- — 
any  one  will.  Stick  your  shiny  new  saddle  on  him,  wrap  a 
change  of  clothes  in  a  slicker  and  tie  it  behind,  strap  your 
rifle  under  your  leg  and  come  along.  You  leave  your  other 
plunder  here  at  the  hotel  and  Oleander  will  send  it  out  the 
next  time  the  ranch  wagon  comes  for  supplies." 

"But  how  will  I  get  Mr.  Nunn's  horse  back  to  him?" 

"Shucks !  You  turn  him  loose  and  he'll  come  straight  home. 
Then  you  hurl  your  saddle  in  my  wagon.  Some  time  to-mor 
row  night  I'll  set  you  down  at  Fuentes.  You  can  get  another 
horse  there  and  ride  him  to  the  N  8  ranch.  It's  only  twenty 
miles,  and  plain  landmarks  to  ride  for.  Then  you  can  turn 
that  horse  loose,  too.  Come  along.  You  have  got  fifteen  min 
utes  to  organize  yourself.  We'll  shack  along  over  to  the  Square 
and  Compass,  sleep  while  it's  hot,  and  start  this  evening." 

"Where  you  going  to,  your  own  self,  Emil?"  asked  old  Pat. 

"Over  on  the  Malibu — just  rammin'  around." 

At  the  upper  end  of  Roundabout,  young  Watterson  reined 
in  and  turned  for  a  last  look  at  the  straggling  town  and  the 
headlong  hills  beyond.  The  bells  of  San  Clemente  shook  terce 
from  the  old  church  tower. 

"Yes,"  said  Emil,  "horses  are  sure  intelligent." 

"How  so?    I  don't  get  you." 

"Son,  you're  going  to  try  ranchin'  one  small  spell,  you  tell 
me.  Listen  now:  when  they  send  you  out  to  hunt  saddle 
horses,  you  ride  straight  to  the  likeliest  and  finest-looking  glade 
you  know.  You'll  find  'em  there,  if  there's  any  grass  there  at 
all.  Horses  like  beautiful  places.  They  appreciate  them. 
Humans  is  just  the  same  way.  San  Clemente,  now:  it  im 
agines  it  is  here  because  of  the  mines.  All  bosh :  people  found 
the  mines  just  as  an  excuse  for  staying  here.  Even  finer  coun 
try  on  the  east  side,  though,  where  all  our  ranches  are.  I'll 
build  a  town  there  some  day,  when  the  railroad  comes.  Yes, 
I  will — you'll  see !  In  the  meantime  old  San  Clemente  is  the 
most  beautiful  town  I  know. 

"Take  Ridgepole  now — she's  our  rival.  She's  got  richer 
mines  and  more  of  'em,  mines  that  have  proved  their  stayin' 


64  WEST    IS    WEST 

qualities.  She's  got  a  railroad;  we're  handicapped  by  forty- 
five  mile  of  blistering  hell-roarin'  desert.  But  San  Clemente 
has  double  the  people.  'Cause  why?  They  don't  know,  bless 
your  heart — the  San  Clemente  folks  don't.  But  I'll  tell  you: 
It's  the  pull  of  the  big  old  mountain  yonder,  and  little  Ghost 
Mountain  and  the  little  parks  of  cedar  and  live  oak  and  the 
sleepy  curves  of  the  draw.  Yessir ! 

"Mighty  nice  people,  too — most  of  'em  is.  A  few  mean 
ones,  like  that  white-faced  fiend  of  a  Keough — stewin'  about 
a  little  dirty  money  when  men's  lives  were  at  stake.  That's 
how  you  can  pick  the  bad  ones,  kid — by  the  value  they  set  on 
money.  You'll  find  some  several  swine  in  San  Clemente,  if 
you  keep  your  eye  on  the  hog  trough.  Let's  go !" 

"Matches,"  said  Emil  James,  slowly  and  seriously,  counting 
his  fingers  by  way  of  tally — "matches,  coffee,  coffee-pot,  sugar, 
tincow,  tin  cups  and  spoons — that's  coffee."  As  he  spoke  he 
carefully  packed  the  objects  named  on  the  shelves  of  the  chuck- 
box,  misses'  and  children's  size,  of  "the  slickest  little  spring 
wagon." 

That  spring  wagon  was  the  especial  pride  and  comfort  of 
Emil's  heart.  When  you  learn  that  he  kept  it  painted  and 
sheltered  you  will  know — if  you  are  a  frontiersman — just 
where  that  little  wagon  stood  in  Emil's  affections. 

It  was  wrought  by  the  best  skill  under  Emil's  jealous  super 
vision;  built  to  be  both  light  and  strong.  Six  woods  went  to 
the  making  of  it — hickory,  oak,  tough  hornbeam,  black  birch, 
whitewood — clear  stock,  straight  grained — and  gnarled  Bois 
d'Arc  for  the  hubs:  all  seasoned  for  seven  years,  and  kiln 
dried  to  stand  up  in  the  dry  air  of  the  desert.  The  highest 
quality  of  iron  and  steel  went  to  the  fittings,  the  toughest  and 
easiest  of  springs.  The  wagon  bed,  framed  and  panelled  for 
lightness,  had  no  nail  or  screw  in  it;  cunningly  joined  by 
mortise,  tenon,  dowel  and  dovetail  and  housed  joints:  all 
locked  to  place  by  long  and  slender  bolts  at  the  four  corners. 
A  touch  on  the  strong  footbrake  locked  the  wheels:  and  there 
was  a  practicable  step  in  front  of  the  front  wheel. 

Where  the  tail-gate  might  have  been,  the  chuck  box  was 
"built  in"  to  avoid  superfluous  weight,  floor  and  sides  of  the 
wagon  box  being  also  floor  and  sides  of  the  chuckbox.  Be- 


CHEERFUL   LAND  65 

tween  chuckbox  and  front  and  the  only  seat,  the  wagon  box 
flared  over  the  wheels,  after  the  fashion  of  a  hay  rigging,  just 
long  enough  and  wide  enough  to  accommodate  a  light  set  of 
bed  springs.  The  deep  space  beneath  it  was  for  promiscuous 
cargo.  Under  the  lazyback  spring  seat  was  a  low  oaken  water- 
tank,  also  "built  in";  doing  away  with  the  customary  water- 
kegs,  usually  slung  at  the  sides  of  such  a  wagon  by  iron  straps. 

The  whole  was  surmounted  by  a  ribbed  top,  braced  and 
firm,  leather  covered.  There  were  light  racks  and  straps  at 
the  top  for  clothing  or  small  effects:  there  were  leather  side 
curtains,  with  pockets  in  them,  marvelous  because  they  would 
go  up  and  stay  up,  or  come  down  and  stay  down;  and  there 
was  also  that  rarest  of  luxuries,  a  lantern  that  would  give 
light. 

"Bacon,  frying-pan,  knives,  forks  and  plates — that's  bacon. 
Flour,  water,  salt,  baking  powder,  lard,  dutchoven — that's 
bread.  Beans,  canned  truck,  spuds,  pepper — that's  extrys." 

"Don't  forget  the  water  for  potatoes,"  prompted  young  Mr. 
Watterson  anxiously.  "Or  are  you  reciting  that  little  ditty  to 
exercise  your  lungs  ?" 

"Son,  if  this  is  delayin'  you  any,"  said  Emil  benignly,  "try 
to  put  up  with  it,  will  you?  I'm  considerable  old  maidish  and 
set  in  my  ways.  And  I  can  tell  you  something  useful.  May  I 
call  you  John  Sayles  Watterson,  Junior?  I  like  the  sound  of 
that.  It  feels  good  in  my  goozle." 

"Go  as  far  as  you  like." 

"All  right!  John  Sayles  Watterson,  Junior:  I  have  twice1 
heard  you  strongly  voice  opinion  that  most  men  in  this  coun 
try  do  things  well.  It  is  true.  We  admit  it.  And  now  I 
am  to  tell  you  why.  It  is  because  a  man  in  this  country  is 
always  trying  for  two  things :  to  be  his  own  foreman,  who  says 
what  now  and  next  to  do,  and  to  be  his  own  inspector,  to  see 
that  before  he  quits  he  makes  a  good  job  of  it.  I'm  inspect 
ing:  and  I  don't  want  any  attention  distracted.  You  keep 
still!  .  .  .  Shot  gun  and  shells — that's  quail  and  rabbits. 
Rifle  and  cartridges — that's  venison.  Blankets — that's  bed. 
Your  saddle  and  truck — that's  under  the  bedsprings.  Can 
teens,  water-bucket,  hobbles,  ropes,  nosebags — that's  sundries. 
Corn  for  horses — that's  good.  Water — that's  life.  That's  all. 
Let's  go ! — There !  I  near  forgot  the  axle-grease !" 


CHAPTER    III 

MALIBU    FLAT 

PINTO  was  a  red  horse,  broad-belted  with  white.  He  wore 
a  white  shirt-front  and  white  stockings,  outsize,  carelessly 
gartered.  He  was  also  slashed  and  spangled  and  harlequin- 
checked  with  white  as  to  head,  neck,  shoulders,  side,  flank  and 
hip. 

Paint  was  white,  splashed  with  red;  and  afterward  splat 
tered  with  shakings  from  the  brush.  Moreover,  to  avoid  mo 
notony,  he  was  freckled  with  little  brown  spots,  and  a  long, 
narrow,  irregular  splotch  of  jet  black  criss-crossed  down  his 
off  hip  and  thigh.  Long  curly  tail,  long  curly  mane  were 
delicate  cream.  Just  for  a  surprise,  both  ears  were  one  color, 
a  modest  red.  Then,  while  you  were  off  your  guard,  one  eye 
was  black  and  the  other  a  startling  blue.  John  Sayles  jumped 
when  he  came  upon  that  blue  eye  unawares. 

They  made  a  sprightly  team,  worthy  of  the  wondrous  wagon. 
Emil  had  matched  them  with  loving  care,  picking  from  his 
cdballada  of  six  hundred  head.  Their  gaits  were  frisk,  scam 
per  and  scurry :  for  town  work  they  could  saunter  and  strut. 

They  now  wore  an  expression  singularly  care-free ;  they  ex 
changed  a  knowing  glance  which  said  so  plainly  that  they 
tolerated  the  harness  only  because  of  some  private  designs  of 
their  own,  that  John  Sayles,  intercepting  that  message  by 
chance,  felt  like  an  eavesdropper. 

There  was  a  preliminary  egg-dance;  they  scrambled  back 
through  the  Gap,  they  turned  sharply  to  the  right  on  a  faint 
and  little-used  road  and  scudded  down  the  gentle  slope  of  a 
long  winding  ridge,  carpeted  with  a  turf  of  short  yellow 
grass,  and  neighbored  by  a  thousand  yellow  ridges  precisely 
like  it.  Then  John  Sayles  began  to  see  how  the  desert  had 
fooled  him.  Malibu  Flat  was  not  flat  at  all. 

66 


MALIBU   FLAT  67 

Seen  from  town,  through  the  low  gaps  between  the  hillocks 
of  Sundown  Ridge,  the  plain  had  appeared  to  be  absolutely 
level  and  either  brown  or  of  a  dull  slate  color.  John  Sayles 
saw  now  that  it  was  a  wrinkled  slope  of  gentle  ridges  for 
rather  more  than  halfway  across,  all  keeping  the  same  long 
easy  grade  down  to  a  narrow  and  insignificant  gray  strip  near 
the  middle,  after  which  it  immediately  began  to  rise  toward 
the  other  side  in  a  shorter  and  steeper  slope — a  dark  brown 
slope. 

John  Sayles  dismissed  Malibu  Flat  from  his  attention,  rather 
disappointed,  and  turned  to  ask  a  few  questions  about  the 
little  bunches  of  cattle  they  passed,  whose  were  they  and  where 
did  they  water — when,  all  at  once,  under  their  very  feet  the 
ridge  broke  away  to  yawning  deeps.  Below  them  stretched  a 
red  sandstone  maze  of  foothills,  heaped  and  tumbled:  unseen 
before  because  the  highest  top  of  them  was  lower  than  the 
smooth  ridge  country. 

The  wagon  road  plunged  and  dived  down  the  ridge-end, 
rope-walked  a  hog-back,  twisted  and  squirmed  through  the  red 
hills  to  a  deep,  winding  canon.  And  presently  the  canon  walls 
grew  lower;  another  sharp  bend  and  they  came  out  upon  a 
broad  sea  of  plain,  treeless,  gray  with  scattered  bunch  grass, 
dotted  with  cattle  and  bands  of  horses ;  a  plain  that  filled  the 
horizon;  that  far-off  brown  slope  was  now  a  brown  ribbon  at 
the  base  of  the  Malibu. 

After  a  little,  their  faint  and  grass-grown  track  joined  a 
big,  plain  road,  which  bore  quartering  across  the  plain  to  the 
northwest. 

"This  is  the  Hueco-Datil  road,"  said  Emil.  "We  follow  it 
as  far  as  the  third  stage-station,  so  we  can  water  the  horses 
at  midnight.  Then  we  turn  straight  across." 

The  sun  was  low  above  the  Malibu ;  the  cool  night  wind  be 
gan  to  rise.  The  horses  snorted  cheerfully  and  settled  to  a 
brisk  jog.  Far  ahead — whenever  the  wagon  topped  a  ground-1 
gwell — a  little  green  streak  of  low  brush  showed  in  a  thin  line 
of  fuzz. 

"The  first  station  is  behind  us,  way  back  where  the  stage 
road  left  the  hills,  maybe  five  mile  before  we  come  into  it," 
added  Emil.  "We're  making  right  good  time." 

John  Sayles  looked  back  and  marveled.     The  huddled  red 


68  WEST   IS   WEST 

foothills  were  an  insignificant  splash,  blazing  low  in  the  level 
light  of  sunset.  Above,  that  easy  slope  of  smooth  ridges  was 
unbelievably  steep,  merging  indistinguishable  with  the  moun 
tain  mass  to  which  it  made  plinth  and  pedestal;  Ghost  Moun 
tain  was  only  a  thin  wraith-outline;  beyond,  Fantasia  Range 
soared  to  incredible  heights  against  the  turquoise  sky.  Fasci 
nated,  the  boy  watched  the  shadow  of  the  world  creep  over 
the  plain  and  up  the  steeps,  saw  sunset  hide  in  the  crags  and 
linger  on  the  flame-tipped  crest.  The  swift  twilight  came  on 
with  a  rush. 

John  Sayles  sighed  and  came  back  to  the  front  seat.  The 
thin  line  of  brush  met  them  halfway.  They  drove  into  it; 
without  warning,  all  the  world  was  a  bush-dotted  wilderness 
of  white  chalk-hills,  rippling  in  low  waves.  The  broad  plain 
was  gone.  Nothing  was  left  but  the  far  mountains  and  the 
endless  sink  and  swell  of  billowing  chalk.  The  short  twilight 
passed  in  a  breath;  the  stars  blazed  out. 

Clouds  of  white  dust  lifted  with  the  wheels:  they  gritted  in 
the  chalk-ruts,  they  lurched  in  chuckholes:  the  team  slowed  to 
a  plodding  walk.  The  black  bulk  of  Pinetop  shouldered  into 
the  desert  and  crowded  the  stage  road  further  out.  They  came 
to  a  mile-wide  sunken  valley,  lush  with  thick  grass.  This  was 
the  Sinks  of  the  Percha:  the  lights  of  the  second  stage  station 
twinkled  across  its  deeps.  They  passed  it,  they  climbed  out  of 
the  sink  and  came  to  a  good  footing  and  a  rolling  country: 
they  see-sawed  up  and  down  or  wound  between  the  little  hills. 
It  was  near  midnight  when  they  watered  at  the  third  stage- 
station.  They  left  the  stage-road  here,  turning  sharply  to  the 
left.  John  Sayles,  at  Emil's  urging,  stretched  out  on  the 
spring  bed.  The  last  sound  he  heard  was  the  wheels  crunch 
ing  through  sand. 

Emil  stopped  the  wagon  at  two  in  the  morning,  to  make 
camp  for  the  three  vital  hours,  from  two  to  five,  when  strength 
of  horse  and  man  is  at  lowest  ebb.  John  Sayles  roused  up, 
helped  to  unharness  and  hobble,  and  crawled  sleepily  back  to 
bed.  At  the  first  streak  of  dawn  they  pushed  on  again  through 
endless  undulations  of  sandhills,  horse-high  with  gray-green 
and  spicy  sagebrush. 

The  swift  daylight  grew:  and  John  Sayles  was  something 
disconcerted  to  find  that  La  Fantasia  was  no  further  away 


MALIBU   FLAT  69 

than  at  sunset,  while  the  Malibu  was  no  nearer.  TEere  was 
only  one  proof  of  progress :  That  thin  gray  streak  was  wider 
now,  dead  ahead  and  clear-seen  in  the  cool  light  of  morning. 
Red  sunrise  brought  them  to  it:  a  dead  lowland  of  crumbling 
and  rotten  soil,  starved  and  poisoned,  leprous,  blotched  with 
alkali,  without  grass,  without  vegetation  save  for  a  morbid, 
fleshy  and  hateful  jelly-growth  known  as  Dead  Man's  Hand: 
leafless,  flowerless,  without  even  thorn  or  spine  to  the  gnarled 
and  crippled  fingers. 

They  crossed  a  dry  lake-bed  crusted  inch-deep  with  spark 
ling  crystals  of  salt;  they  crossed  the  resonant  and  resilienj; 
bed  of  a  dry  soda-lake,  spirit-level  smooth;  they  climbed  a 
sudden  bench  and  came  out  on  a  fair  and  wholesome  plain 
checkered  with  green  patches  of  tall,  thrifty  salt  grass  and 
broad  levels  of  bare  ground,  white  and  sunglazed.  This  was 
good  going;  unbidden,  the  ponies  took  up  their  brisk  jog-trot; 
nine  brought  them  to  a  soapweed  country  and  black  gramma. 
They  were  on  the  upgrade  now,  climbing  toward  Malibu.  They 
made  camp  for  nooning  at  the  first  clump  of  soapweeds  big 
enough  to  afford  a  slender  shade  for  the  ponies. 

Water  from  the  oak  tank  under  the  seat  for  the  eager  horses, 
a  thankful  roll,  corn  in  the  nosebags,  then  hobbles  and  a  close- 
cropped  swath  of  black  grama;  fire  and  a  marvelous  break 
fast  in  the  shade  of  the  wagon ;  silence  and  sleep. 

John  Sayles  woke  in  mid-afternoon.  Pinto  and  Paint  dozed 
sociably  under  the  soapweed  clump.  Emil  James,  curled  up 
on  the  front  seat,  smoked  a  meditative  pipe.  John  Sayles 
raised  a  curtain  and  stared  hard  at  La  Fantasia.  Then  he 
turned  his  head  and  stared  at  the  Malibu. 

Emil  tapped  out  his  pipe  and  nodded  approval.  "Correct !" 
he  said.  "Ain't  it  the  truth?  Right  smart  of  a  universe  and 
very  little  of  us.  That  is  about  the  proper  proportion.  This 
is  no  place  for  delusions  of  grandeur."  He  reached  for  his 
boots.  "I'll  stir  up  dinner.  You  water  and  feed  the  horses 
and  harness  up.  We're  due  at  Red  Mesa  by  dark." 

"Why,  we're  only  halfway  across,"  said  John  Sayles.  "At 
least,  so  it  seems,"  he  added  hastily. 

"Seems  is  right,"  said  Emil.  "But  we're  out  of  the  Seem-So 
country  now  and  up  on  a  real  place — with  four-fifths  of  the 


70  WEST    IS   WEST 

way  behind  us — maybe  two-thirds.  Them  lowlands  was  the 
mirage  country — the  Never-Never  country.  You  want  to  make 
the  trip  by  daylight  some  time.  You'll  be  surprised  at  the 
things  you  see — lakes  that  aren't  there,  herds  of  cattle,  the 
Witch  Hills,  and  a  long,  low  yellow  town  that  the  Welshmen 
claim  is  one  of  theirs — all  sorts  of  things.  Sometimes  there's 
a  grove  of  palm  trees  by  the  lakes,  and  once  I'm  pretty  near 
sure  I  almost  saw  a  drove  of  camels.  Not  to  mention  things 
that  are  really  there,  that  you  missed  last  night — Cactus  Flats 
and  the  greasewood  country,  and  the  dust-devils,  and  the  deep 
sand  that  we  crawled  through,  one  mile  and  a  half  an  hour, 
while  you  were  asleep." 

"See  here,  how  wide  is  this  flat  that  isn't  flat,  anyway?" 
demanded  John  Sayles  indignantly.  "They  told  me  in  town  it 
was  forty  miles." 

"It  is  forty  miles — straight  across  to  Malibu  Knob,  where 
Keough  had  his  mine  explosion  the  day  before  you  arrived. 
That's  the  way  the  cattle  come  from  the  San  Quentin  coun 
try,  the  Morgans  and  that  bunch — when  they  don't  ship  from 
Magdalena.  Our  trip  is  seventy  miles.  We  didn't  come 
straight  across.  We  come  slantwise:  our  road  went  too  far 
north  to  water  at  the  stage-station,  and  then  had  to  tack  back. 
Also,  and  likewise,  the  desert  has  another  surprise  for  you  yet 
— even  in  the  really-truly  part  of  it." 

"And  all  this  country,  clear  to  Ridgepole,  is  the  V  Cross  T 
Range?" 

"Well,  no — not  all  of  it.  Old  Man  Gibson  runs  his  own 
wagon  from  Pinetop  north  and  west,  and  out  this  way  as  far 
as  the  poison  sink  we  crossed  this  morning.  Where  we  are 
now  is  the  border  of  the  Fuentes  country;  they  use  the  grass 
north  from  this  road  to  the  N  8  range.  South  of  here,  the 
Morgans  claim  the  east  side  of  the  Malibu:  they  have  crowded 
over  from  the  San  Quentin  Plains,  them  and  the  Wyandottes. 
But  all  the  rest  is  V  Cross  T  country,  with,  of  course,  all  us 
little  cowmen  scattered  round-about.  Good  outfit;  we  get 
along  fine  together." 

"They  tell  me  that  the  Morgans  are  not  a  good  outfit,  but  a 
very  bad  outfit/'  said  John  Sayles.  "They  say  the  Morgans  and 
this  man  Webb  ambushed  and  killed  Clay  Mundy  a  few  years 
back,  because  they  wanted  his  ranches:  and  that  they  mur- 


MALIBU   FLAT  71 

dered  another  man,  at  the  same  time,  a  stranger  who  hap 
pened  to  be  with  Mundy.  Seem  to  be  a  thorough  people,  the 
Morgans.  But  others  told  me  that  the  stranger,  MacGregor, 
was  a  hired  killer  that  the  Morgans  employed  to  murder  Mun 
dy,  and  that  MacGregor  got  himself  killed  in  the  routine  of 
business/' 

"Son,"  said  Emil  gravely,  "the  safe  plan  to  use  in  dealin' 
with  any  rumor  about  old  feuds  and  wars  is  not  to  believe  all 
you  hear.  You  needn't  disbelieve  it:  just  don't  believe  it.  And 
one  of  the  wisest  ways  I  know  of  to  put  in  a  pleasant  after 
noon  is  not  repeating  town  talk  about  the  Morgans.  And  this 
tale  is  precisely  the  one  they  enjoy  least.  They  had  a  long, 
hard  fight  with  Mundy,  and  they  held  the  Mundy  empire  when 
he  was  killed:  but  they  don't  run  to  ambush  much,  the  Mor 
gans." 

"I  didn't  know  the  Morgans  were  friends  of  yours,"  laid 
the  boy. 

"Well,  you  got  nothing  on  the  Morgans — neither  do  they," 
said  Emil,  somewhat  grimly.  He  was  silent  a  long  time  be 
fore  he  spoke  again.  "So  long  as  I've  said  this  much,  I'll  say 
a  little  more:  The  Morgans  are  even  less  likely  to  hire  mur 
der  done  than  to  kill  from  ambush.  No  one  knows  exactly 
what  happened  when  Clay  Mundy  died.  It  was  the  year  of 
the  big  rains — either  five  years  ago  or  four,  I  don't  just  re 
member  which.  Before  the  bodies  were  found,  a  shower  came 
up  and  washed  out  all  the  sign." 

"Sign?"  echoed  John  Sayles.     "I  don't  understand." 

"Tracks.  With  no  rain,  the  tracks  would  have  just  about 
told  the  story.  One  thing  is  sure:  There  was  no  question  of 
ambush ;  it  was  clear  plain.  I  have  seen  the  place. 

"Another  thing:  The  man  MacGregor  worked  for  Mundy. 
He  was  a  pretty  tough  nut,  MacGregor.  I've  hunted  up  his 
record ;  it  is  certain  that  he  was  never  the  kind  to  betray  the 
man  who  trusted  him. 

"There  were  three  guns  found.  Whether  MacGregor  died 
fighting  Mundy,  or  fighting  at  Mundy's  side  in  a  pitched  battle 
against  the  Morgans — I  reckon  that  will  never  be  known.  The 
Morgans  have  told  no  story — and  nobody  has  thought  to  ques 
tion  them. 

"Here  is  how  I  size  it  up:  There  was  no  ambush;  the  Mor- 


72  WEST    IS    WEST 

gans  fight  fair.  If  there  had  been  a  showdown  fight,  the  Mor-» 
gans  would  have  told  their  side.  Why  not?  It  is  my  idea  that 
Mundy  and  MacGregor  had  a  difference  of  opinion. — Let's 

go!" 

An  hour  brought  them  to  that  far-seen  brown  slope  of  yes 
terday.  It  took  shape  now  as  a  slope  of  mesquite  hummocks, 
and  it  was  not  brown  at  all,  but  a  nameless,  indescribable 
shimmer,  an  undulating  sheen  like  rye  fields  in  the  wind.  For 
the  long,  drooping,  fernlike  leaves  were  two  shades  of  green; 
the  top  or  outside  was  a  solid  color,  nearer  brown  than  green, 
which  seemed  to  soak  up  the  sun  and  hoard  it;  the  reverse  side* 
was  an  unsubstantial  light  green  which  shook  off  the  sun.  So 
slender  were  those  drooping  and  delicate  leaves  that  the 
shadow  they  cast  was  scarcely  more  than  a  veil:  the  solid, 
dark  mahogany  color  of  trunk  and  brown  branches  and  brown 
stems  and  brown  twigs  persisted  through  the  gauzy  green  that 
quivered  and  shook  and  turned  and  trembled  to  shimmering 
change  with  each  slightest  breeze,  with  ever  the  constant 
brown  bark  tinting  through. 

They  wound  up  and  up  through  the  hummocks.  Malibu  was 
nearer  now,  and  losing  its  blueness.  Every  mile  some  new 
feature,  shoulder  or  slope,  cliff  or  canon  cleft,  broke  through 
that  blue  haze,  took  shape  and  clearness — and  shadows. 

The  long  mesquite  slope  was  topped  at  last;  they  came  to 
a  wide  flat  shelf  of  tableland  with  a  step  beyond;  mounted 
that  step  to  another  level  bench,  with  yet  another  far-off  step 
for  limit.  They  climbed  that  step  in  turn  and  came  at  last  to 
the  promised  surprise. 

"Good  Lord !"  gasped  Sayles.  "And  I  thought  these  moun 
tains  were  a  straight  wall." 

A  broad  and  smiling  prairie  flowed  level  to  the  very  base  of 
the  mountains.  Every  facet  and  angle  of  Malibu  shook  back 
the  sun.  Malibu  was  suddenly  very  near:  on  the  closer  slopes 
tufts  and  puff-balls  of  dark  green  leaped  up  and  became  cedars. 
And  the  Malibu  was  west  no  longer,  but  south ;  Hueco  was  west 
no  longer,  nor  purple,  but  grim  against  the  northern  sky. 
And  where  was  Red  Mesa,  that  had  made  a  straight  line  with 
these  two? 

While  they  were  busy  climbing  the  last  stair,  Red  Mesa  had 


MALIBU   FLAT  73 

fled  away  into  the  west.  The  plain  flowed  on  between  Malibu 
and  Hueco  in  a  deep  bay:  a  semicircular  Red  Mesa  made  a 
far-curving  shore  for  it;  the  prairie  beat  up  in  slow  waves 
against  the  low  red  cliffs.  Malibu  and  Hueco  were  capes  and 
headlands  to  this  bay.  From  cape  to  cape  the  red  shore  made 
one  sheer  cliff,  rising  abruptly  from  the  plain;  an  unbroken 
wall,  now  low,  now  high,  advancing  or  receding  in  creeks  and 
bays  and  inlets,  with  headland  and  promontory  between,  but 
with  no  visible  passway  in  all  the  long  dim  west. 

"There's  the  N  8  ranch,  in  the  south  gable  of  the  Hueco. 
And  here's  where  we're  going  to-night — straight  ahead,"  said 
Emil  James,  pointing.  "You're  nearly  as  close  to  the  N  8  now 
as  you  will  be  at  dark." 

"Where  are  we  going,  then?" 

"Barnaby  Bright,"  said  Emil. 

"What's  that — town,  ranch,  or  mine  ?" 

"Something  else.  It's  a  pass  through  Red  Mesa.  It  is  the 
pass  through  Red  Mesa." 

"I  don't  see  any  sign  of  a  pass,"  said  John. 

"You  don't,  and  you  won't.  You  can  hardly  see  it  when 
you're  right  at  it.  It's  just  a  crack  in  the  rock — a  crack  with 
straight-up-and-down  walls  from  fifty  to  three  hundred  feet 
high.  A  zig-zag  crack  two  miles  long  and  averagin'  twenty 
feet  wide — just  room  enough  for  two  wagons  to  pass.  Curious 
place !  Little  crevice  goes  straight  in  to  the  rock,  maybe  two 
hundred  yards :  looks  like  that's  all  there  is  to  it.  All  at  once 
there's  an  elbow — so  sharp  a  wagon  can  hardly  make  the  turn 
— more  than  a  right  angle.  Then  it  goes  north  nearly  half  a 
mile,  makes  another  bend,  and  wanders  west  for  a  mile  and  a 
half,  up  to  the  divide  and  open  country.  Splits  the  rock  like 
you'd  split  a  knot  with  an  axe.  But  there's  no  other  way 
across  the  range  for  a  lifetime  each  way — not  for  a  wagon. 
And  there's  no  other  way  across  Red  Mesa  itself,  even  for  a 
pack  outfit.  Red  Mesa  joins  the  Hueco  and  Malibu  without 
crevice  or  seam — just  keeps  on  going  under  the  mountain.  I 
reckon  maybe  Red  Mesa  is  the  end  of  the  crowbar  that  pried 
the  mountains  up." 

"What  is  it— all  one  solid  cliff?" 

"One  solid  cliff  all  the  way  except  for  the  crack  at  Barnaby 
Bright.  It's  forty  miles  straight  across  from  Malibu  to  Hueco 


74  WEST   IS   WEST 

and  the  Mesa  makes  maybe  fifteen  miles'  dip  to  the  west  and 
back  again.  Some  fence!" 

"What  kind  of  people  live  at  this  Barnaby  place?" 

"Nobody  lives  there.  Just  a  little  creek  that  runs  out  of 
the  rock.  Nobody  lives  closer  than  Fuentes,  ten  miles  north — 
or  twenty-five  miles  south,  at  the  new  Morgan  Ranch  in  the 
north  end  of  Malibu.  Creek  belongs  to  the  Fuentes  clan  any 
time  this  last  two  hundred  years  and  more,  but  they  live  in 
their  own  town.  You  can't  see  Fuentes  from  here;  it's  in  a 
sheltered  valley,  behind  one  of  them  little  capes." 

"Do  we  go  there  to-night?" 

"Nope.  We  water  at  the  creek  and  slip  out  a  little  ways 
to  grass.  Cattle  have  got  it  pretty  well  eaten  off  next  to  the 
water.  We  can  loiter  along  to  Fuentes  in  the  morning." 

"I'd  like  to  see  that  crack  in  the  rock.  It  must  be  a  strange 
place." 

"Well,  you  can.  It  was  made  on  purpose  to  look  at,  I  reckon 
— and  to  use.  We'll  go  see  manana — rise  with  the  lark  or 
birds  to  that  effect.  We  can  walk  back  while  the  ponies  take 
a  little  extra  rest — or  we  can  fork  the  ponies,  bareback,  and 
give  'em  another  drink.  No  hurry.  It's  worth  seeing,  Bar 
naby  Bright  is." 

"So  this  was  that  surprise  of  yours — this  big  bend  in  the 
mountains?"  said  John  Sayles.  "Well,  it  surprises  me,  all 
right.  These  mountains  are  not  dependable." 

"They  are  not,"  said  Emil.  "But  I  like  it  better  where  the 
mountains  run  every  which-a-way,  like  this.  And  I  like  the 
mirage  country,  too.  When  you're  not  sure  whether  you  really 
see  something  or  just  think  you  see  it,  you're  apt  to  be  pretty 
tolerant  about  things  you  haven't  seen — things  somebody  said 
they  was  told  somebody  saw  once.  That  saves  trouble.  No 
body  gets  excited  over  things  they  really  know.  It  is  the 
things  that  nobody  knows  anything  about  that  people  fight 
over.  That's  the  beauty  of  the  Seem-So  country.  When  even 
the  mountains  don't  stay  put,  it's  hard  to  be  bigot-y.  You  get 
it  firm  in  your  old  thick  head  that  you  might  be  maybe  mis 
taken  about  most  anything." 

"But  those  mountains  by  Albuquerque,  the  Sandias  and 
Manzanos — surely  they  were  straight?" 

"Yes,"  said  Emil.     "East  of  the  river,  the  hills  run  pretty 


MALIBU   FLAT  75 

regular  in  their  habits.  I  used  to  live  over  there  once — far 
ther  south,  in  the  big  valley  between  the  Front  Range  and 
the  San  Andres. 

"Well,  it  was  amusing.  The  general  trend  of  the  Front 
Range — the  Guadelupe-Sacramento-White  Mountain-Capitan 
system — was  from  the  southeast  to  the  northwest,  or  there 
abouts.  On  the  west  side  the  Organ-San  Andres-Oscura  com 
bination — that's  the  same  range  as  your  Sandias  at  Albu 
querque,  only  with  different  names — why,  they  edged  just  the 
other  way  a  little.  So  a  man  from  the  east  side  held  mighty 
steadfast  to  the  theory  that  northwest  was  north,  or,  at  the 
most  liberal  view,  that  north-northwest  was  north.  They 
squared  their  convictions  with  the  biggest  solid  fact  at  hand; 
and  you  see,  them  mountains  was  plenty  incontrovertible. 

"Just  as  reasonably,  the  west  side  man  emotionally  observed 
northeast  as  north,  or  north-northeast  if  he  was  broadminded: 
the  San  Andres  was  also  what  you  might  call  permanent  and 
tangible. 

"Well,  when  these  people  met  each  other  in  the  middle  of 
the  plain,  they  was  all  at  right  angles  and  cross-purposes.  It 
was  right  comical.  Oh,  they  liked  each  other  well  enough,  and 
got  along,  somehow.  But  they  couldn't  have  any  real  respect 
for  any  one  holdin'  such  barbarous  creeds. 

"The  east  side  was  purposely  and  conscientiously  and  reso 
lutely  right,  and  knew  it  durned  well:  how  could  a  stubborn 
west  side,  which  was  purposely  and  willfully  and  knowingly 
wrong  about  so  simple  and  easy  a  matter  as  north  and  southy 
have  any  worth-while  opinions  on  other  subjects,  eh?  This 
amused  me  all  the  more,"  said  Emil,  "because,  where  I  lived, 
the  mountains  run  due  north  and  south." 

Bands  of  cattle  grew  more  frequent.  The  red  shore 
wavered  nearer  and  nearer ;  in  the  cliff  the  black  line  that  was 
their  goal  became  a  deep  black  gash.  In  the  long  shade  of 
that  great  red  wall,  as  sunset  flamed  and  faded,  they  toiled  up 
a  sloping  triangle  of  parked  cedar  to  a  delta  of  willow  and 
ash,  where  a  trickle  of  water  tinkled  over  rocky  ledges  of  a 
little  gravelly  wash.  A  hundred  yards  away,  the  deep  notch 
of  the  pass  showed  brokenly  and  dim  between  the  tree-trunks. 

John  Sayles  unhitched  Paint  and  Pinto,  and  led  them  up- 


76  WEST    IS    WEST 

stream  to  a  pool.  Emil  was  pouring  fresh  water  into  the  oaken 
tank,  when  John  Sayles  gave  a  startled  exclamation. 

"What's  that?" 

John  Sayles  was  beyond  the  trees:  he  pointed  at  the  near 
and  narrow  pass. 

"What's  what?"  answered  Emil  placidly. 

"I  didn't  believe  it  at  first — I  thought  it  was  my  eyes,  or 
some  trick  of  shadows  and  twilight.  But  it's  a  house!"  cried 
John  Sayles.  "It's  a  house  built  all  the  way  across  the  pass — 
built  into  the  cliff  walls !  And  the  wagon  road  runs  square 
through  the  house!" 

"That  is  no  house,"  said  Emil.  "It's  a  church — the  Church 
of  Barnaby  Bright." 


CHAPTER  iy 

BARNABY   BRIGHT 

OF  the  visitors  to  this  planet  three  centuries  ago  were  two 
men  who  were  half  a  lifetime  apart  and  half  a  world:  a  Cata 
lan  and  a  Spaniard  of  Peru.  They  met  once  only,  in  Santa 
Fe  of  New  Mexico,  City  Royal  of  the  Holy  Faith  of  Saint 
Francis;  and  that  hour  changed  the  tale  of  history. 

The  world  was  Spain's  when  blue-eyed  Baltazar  Fuentes 
was  born  in  an  old  gray  town,  close  nipped  between  the 
Pyrenees  and  the  tideless  midland  sea:  Cadaquez,  in  Catalonia. 
The  Second  Philip  was  yet  king. 

At  fifteen  years,  the  manling  Fuentes  went  down  to  the  low 
lands,  seeking  fortune.  Barcelona  knew  him  for  a  space,  and 
Tortosa.  There  were  sea-ventures  befitting  a  Catalan.  Then 
he  turned  inland,  followed  the  Elbo  to  Zaragoza,  found  for 
tune  there  and  friends,  and  good  repute,  won  him  a  fair  young 
wife  from  the  strong  family  of  Caldas.  So  peace  and  love 
and  home  and  pleasant  years  were  Baltazar's ;  one  strong  son 
at  last  to  crown  his  joy.  The  Third  Philip  died,  and  the 
Fourth  took  the  crown:  Olivarez  the  favorite  ruled  Spain,  and 
Spain  the  world. 

The  world  was  breaking  free  when  Baltazar  Fuentes  fled 
from  walled  Zaragoza  with  a  king's  wrath  at  his  back.  His 
wife  rode  by  his  side,  loyal  and  brave;  he  carried  before  him 
in  the  saddle  Timoteo,  their  son.  Behind  him  in  the  cool, 
sweet  dawn,  something  huddled  and  lay  still  in  a  pleasant 
glade  by  Zaragoza,  wall:  something  which  of  late  had  been  a 
man,  alive  and  breathing,  arrogant  and  daring:  the  young 
Marquis  of  Calahorra,  "fortunate  Calahorra,"  darling  of  the 
court,  right  hand  of  the  king's  favorite.  THere  had  been  a 
sneering  word,  glancing  at  Baltazar's  young  wife;  swords; 
this. 

77 


78  WEST   IS   WEST 

The  blood  hate  of  Olivarez  clung  close  upon  their  track. 
They  fled  westward,  through  Soria,  Segovia,  Valladolid, 
haunted  Zamora,  Orense;  took  ship  at  Vigo;  to  see  gray  Cada- 
quez  no  more,  or  green  valley  of  the  Elbo. 

Their  sail  was  yet  white  in  the  sea-road  when  a  weary 
troop  drew  rain  upon  the  whispering  shore,  and  a  cadet  of 
Calahorra,  his  horse-hoofs  in  the  foam  and  the  flung  spume 
salt  upon  his  cheek,  stared  down  the  sun-lane  to  the  west 
and  shook  his  fist  at  the  unconquered  sea.  And  the  sad  mists 
rose,  and  night,  and  blotted  out  that  sail. 

Spain  knew  those  fugitives  no  more.  The  new  world 
swallowed  them  up.  Olivarez  fell  in  1643.  On  a  later  year, 
when  news  of  that  fall  came  slowly  to  him,  Fuentes  came 
from  the  silent  places  of  his  hiding  and  took  house  in  the  city 
of  Mexico.  That  brave  wife  was  dead;  Baltazar  was  a  silent 
man,  grave  and  thoughtful;  turned  fifty  now.  The  boy 
Timoteo  became  man  in  the  city,  married  there,  died  there; 
leaving  two  young  sons. 

Baltzar  Fuentes  became  a  Franciscan,  "Of  the  Strict 
Observance."  When  he  was  sent  out  to  the  northern  marches 
to  serve  his  order,  he  had  talk  with  the  mate  of  his  dead  son 
and  took  with  him  into  the  north  his  youngest  grandson,  an 
other  Timeteo;  the  year  1556  brought  him  to  Santa  Fe:  De 
Mendizaval  was  Governor  and  Captain-General  of  New 
Mexico. 

The  man  I  am  to  speak  of  now  was  born  to  splendor, 
apprenticed  to  greatness.  Lima  was  his  birthplace,  1624  the 
year. 

Don  Diego  Dionisio  de  Penalosa  was  descended  from  the 
famous  houses  of  Penalosa  and  Briceiia,  Ocampo,  Verdugo 
and  Cordova:  by  the  mother's  side,  from  Davila,  Arias  de 
Anaya,  Valdivia,  Cabrera,  and  Boabdilla.  He  was  close  and 
doubly  kin  to  the  Dukes  of  Sessa  and  Escalona,  the  Counts  of 
Pierto  en  Rostro  and  to  the  Marquises  of  Maya:  his  wife  was 
grand-daughter  to  Fernan  Cortez,  "the  ever  victorious." 

We  smile  at  this  Hidalgo,  "Son  of  Someone."  But  if  we 
knew  any  man  from  our  own  stock  clear  in  descent  at  once 
from  Percy  and  Neville,  Douglas  and  Graeme,  Clifford  and 
Talbot,  Sidney,  Raleigh  and  Drake,  Howard  and  Gordon  and 


BARNABY   BRIGHT  79 

Glendower,  Clive,  Hastings,  Charnock  and  Wolfe — we  would 
not  smile. 

Don  Diego  became  early  a  man  of  mark.  Family  gave  him 
opportunity;  he  used  it  greatly.  For  the  man  himself,  he 
was  in  no  way  lacking:  no  unworthy  "great-grandson  of  the 
three  greatest  knights":  a  swift,  alert  man,  fiery-daring, 
hardy,  resolute,  adroit,  indomitable — and  fortunate.  He  had 
need  for  the  last  two  qualities:  his  ventures  ranged  through 
five  thousand  miles  of  hardship,  toil  and  danger :  brilliant  and 
skillful  soldier,  wise  and  shifty  administrator.  One  great 
and  rarest  virtue  was  his,  a  kindly  tolerant,  sympathetic 
patience  with  inferiors  and  with  the  copper  children  of  the  new 
world:  one  rank  vice,  an  overgrown  pride  in  his  dealings  with 
those  of  his  own  kidney:  arrogant  and  stiffnecked  pride,  fiery, 
violent  and  overbearing. 

A  youth  of  war,  pathmaking,  building:  this  was  a  man  in 
love  with  joy,  and  one  who  loved  better  to  build  than  to  war, 
and  the  long  road  more  than  either:  'Lord  of  the  cities  of 
Gaurina  and  Farara,  and  of  its  eleven  towns:  Fendatory 
Commendatory  Knight  of  the  City  of  La  Paz,  and  Perpetual 
Regidor  therein,  and  in  the  Five  Provinces  of  its  District: — 
.  .  .  making  his  house  more  illustrious  by  his  sword  with 
titles  of  Marquis  and  Count  of  fair  cities  which  he  has  founded 
from  the  cornerstones/  His  list  of  titles  may  yet  be 
found,  poor  Penalosa,  Briscena  y  Verdugo,  Ocampo  y  Val- 
divia:  a  double  triangle  worthy  of  an  emperor;  'Count  of  Val- 
divia  in  Chile,  Viscount  of  La  Ymperial,  Marquis  of  Arauco 
and  of  Oristan,  Governor  and  Captain-General  of  New 
Mexico,  Adelantado  (First-Man,  Foregoer)  of  Chile  and  of 
the  Gran  Quivira  in  the  west  of  this  New  World  of  America' 
— Dust  that  was  Diego,  how  deep  you  drank  of  life! 

A  marked  man:  it  was  whispered,  echoed  in  new  world  cor 
ridors  that  here  was  one  fitted  to  carry  on  the  great  tradi 
tions  of  the  Conquistadores.  But,  "in  the  midnight  and  flourish 
of  his  May,"  our  Diego  took  one  wrong  turning,  became  tacit 
partisan  of  St.  Francis  against  St.  Dominic ;  and  met  his  first 
set-back  when  he  quarreled  with  the  brother  of  the  Count  of 
Salvetierra,  Viceroy  of  Peru:  quarrel  patched-up  to  peace  by 
authority:  smoldering. 

Because  of  this  quarrel  and  his  desire  of  seeing  Spain,  Pena- 


80  WEST    IS    WEST 

losa  embarked  at  Calloa  in  1652.  The  ship  foundered  within 
sight  of  Payta  Port:  Don  Diego  lost  forty  thousand  crowns 
thereby,  saving  some  twelve  thousand  in  pearls  and  precious 
stones.  He  proceeded  to  Panama:  promptly  found  an  uncle, 
Don  Alonzo  Brisena,  Bishop  of  Nicaragua:  visited  him.  From 
here,  after  another  shipwreck,  he  went  to  Mexico,  capital  of 
New  Spain,  where  he  awaited  news  and  money  from  Peru. 

Albuquerque  was  Viceroy  of  New  Spain:  dusky-brilliant 
Penalosa  pleased  him  well:  found  employment.  He  led  rein 
forcements  to  Montalegre,  holding  Vera  Cruz  against  Crom 
well's  fleet  of  sixty-eight  men-of-war.  The  fleet  captured 
Jamaica  for  England;  Penalosa  bore  himself  well  in  that 
losing  fight:  was  sent  posthaste  to  perilled  Havana  with  his 
seasoned  infantry:  married  there  the  grand-daughter  of 
Cortez.  On  his  return,  high  in  favor,  he  became  governor  of 
Xiqilpa,  of  Chilcota,  Lieutenant-General  in  those  provinces. 

The  Duke  of  Albuquerque  passed,  the  Marquis-Count  of 
Baiios  succeeded. — 'Great  complaints  were  made  to  him  against 
Don  Bernard  Lopez  de  Mendizaval,  Governor  of  New  Mexico, 
whose  greatest  fault  was  his  falling  out  with  the  inquisitors 
and  their  partisans.  Nevertheless,  he  was  recalled  and  the 
Count  of  Penaloso  was  selected  to  command  in  his  stead  and  to 
appease  the  troubles  ordinary  to  that  country.' — This  was  the 
hour  of  his  desire:  New  Mexico  was  on  the  very  marches 
and  bounds  of  empire:  he  would  follow  the  path  of  Cabeca 
de  Vaca,  Coronado,  Espejo,  Juan  de  Onate:  outgo  them.  He 
received  his  commission  as  Governor  and  Captain-General  at 
the  close  of  the  year  1660,  and  set  forth  at  once.  Yet  he 
made  no  speed  of  that  journey;  lingered  in  Zacetecas  for  two 
months,  another  month  in  Parral.  Our  Diego  was  Dionysius 
too:  there  is  an  offshoot  house  of  "Penalossa"  in  Zacetecas  to 
this  day,  claiming  descent  from  him. 

Now  all  things  prospered  to  Penalosa's  hand.  'He  defeated 
the  hostile  Indians  called  Apachs  and  compelled  them  to  sue 
for  peace.  He  founded  two  new  cities,  erected  several  public 
buildings  and  discovered  new  countries/  He  proved  and  armed 
his  dorados, — Golden  Ones — 'a  very  brilliant  company  of 
eighty  Spaniards,  among  whom  were  some  foreigners  married 
in  these  parts/  and  he  established  the  first  American  press- 
agent,  'Father  Friar  Nicolas  de  Freytas,  of  the  Order  of  St. 


BARNABY   BRIGHT  81 

Francis,  Preacher,  Commissary  Visitor  of  the  Third  Order,  and 
Guardian  of  the  Convent  of  San  Yldephonso  in  this  kingdom, 
and  Chaplain  to  His  Most  Illustrious  Lordship/ 

Freytas  it  was  who  wrote  the  Vague,  bombastic  and  curious* 
account  of  the  discovery  by  Peiialosa,  in  1662,  of  the  'City 
and  country  of  Quivira/  'So  glorious  an  enterprise,  giving 
treasures  to  the  crown  of  Spain  to  dominate  the  globe,  for  the 
Glory  of  God,  in  whose  mighty  hand  are  all  things  past, 
present,  and  to  come,  and  of  His  Blessed  Mother,  the  Virgin 
Mary,  Our  Lady,  conceived  without  stain  of  original  sin/ 

Those  statistics  are  mixed.  If  you  read  that  sentence  care 
fully,  you  will  get  some  hint  of  the  confused  whirling  mind 
of  Nicolas  de  Freytas — who  was  author  also  of  a  "Memorial 
of  the  Senor  Adelantado",  designed  for  the  eye  of  Spanish 
Majesty:  and  of  a  sufficiently  naive  "Account"  of  a  previous 
expedition  of  Saldivar  in  1618  to  the  far  lands  "fifteen  days 
beyond  the  last  of  Moq"  (Moqui)  to  the  River  of  Good  Hope, 
or  del  Tison — (Gila) :  wherein,  on  their  turning  back,  one 
Father  Friar  Lazaras  cried  out  "in  a  loud  voice  with  wonder 
ful  grief",  an  eloquent  eulogy  of  our  Don  Diego  Dionisio  de 
Penalosa,  and  a  judicious  recital  of  his  merits:  although,  at 
that  time,  our  Diego  would  not  be  born  for  six  years  to  come. 
This  prenatal  circumstance  lends  a  saffron  touch  to  the  "Ac 
count",  deepened  by  a  broad  hint  near  the  end  that  the  unborn 
Penalosa  "aspires  to  that  (title)  of  Duke  to  become  as 
illustrious  of  himself  as  the  most  excellent  of  his  glorious 
progenitors,  to  whose  titles  of  Marquis,  Count  and  Viscount 
he  is  lawful  heir,  as  of  their  zeal  in  honoring  and  patronizing 
our  Seraphic  order,  as  so  Christian  a  knight  and  our  Brother 
by  Letters  Patent". 

The  story  trusts  that  the  passage  is  sufficiently  clear.  Or 
the  final  paragraph  of  the  "Note"  to  the  "Account". 

"May  our  Lord  in  His  infinite  mercy  grant  that  our  Govern 
or  and  Captain-General  may  by  his  valor  and  skill  remove  all 
the  difficulties  raised  by  those  who  are  not  accustomed  to  over 
come  the  impossible,  as  his  Lordship  is,  for  whom  Divine 
Providence  has  reserved  it  in  its  secret  bosom  from  all  time/' 

The  Freytas  record  of  the  journey  "through  the  country  of 
the  Escanxaques  to  the  large  river  which  they  call  Mischipi' '] 
is  fearfully  and  wonderfully  made.  Nevertheless,  it  seems 


82  WEST    IS   WEST 

probable  that  Penalosa  reached  the  Missouri  near  where 
Omaha  now  stands:  certain  that  he  marched  from  Santa  Fe 
three  months  northeast  into  the  buffalo  country.  The  descrip 
tion  of  rivers,  soil,  vegetation,  fish,  animals,  are  circumstantial 
and  tally  exactly  to  the  last  detail  with  our  own  knowledge, 
bird  and  flower,  shrub  and  tree:  even  to  the  Indian's  proverb 
"To  ten  Hiroquees  four  of  the  Tuft,  and  to  these  two  of  the 
Escanxaques,  and  to  ten  Escanxaques  one  Apache."  Also  the 
sons  of  Penalosa's  dorados  live  in  New  Mexico  today,  Duran 
and  Chavez,  Lucero  and  Godoy:  their  twilight  tales  keep  him 
Foregoer  yet,  hold  him  last  of  the  Conquistadores. 

Shifty-fortunate  Penalosa  brought  his  dorados  safely  back 
to  Santa  Fe,  not  one  lost  on  that  long  expedition,  to  "Quivira" 
— Quebira,  Great  Land:  he  dreamed  of  map-making  and  Duke- 
ships.  There  was  also  a  sweet  woman-child,  born  in  Santa 
Fe  at  about  this  time,  born  to  his  love  but  not  to  his  name,  of 
whom  he  had  much  pride  and  joy. — The  grand-daughter  of 
Cortez  had  died  young,  and  before  Zacetecas. 

Then,  upon  a  day,  planning  new  exploits,  dreaming  groat 
things,  Penalosa  looked  forth  from  his  window  in  the  Adobe 
Palace  and  saw  in  the  courtyard  a  gray  friar,  unknown  to 
him:  who  shook  a  chiding  finger  at  a  young  Indian  boy,  and, 
as  Diego  gathered,  admonished  him  for  some  boyish  failing. 
The  boy  was  Pope,  a  lad  of  the  Teguas :  the  friar  was  Father 
Baltazar  Fuentes. 

On  the  heels  of  this  there  was  a  prodigious  tumult  in  the 
guard  room:  black-gowned  Huelva  stormed  in  upon  Don 
Diego;  dark  Huelva,  Commisary-General  of  the  Inquisition; 
herding  before  him  gray  friar  and  Indian  boy  of  the  court 
yard,  and  Father  Michael  Guevera,  Guardian  of  the  Convent 
of  Santa  Fe.  Huelva  was  flaming,  Guevera  cowed;  the  lad 
stolid;  the  stranger  friar  unfluttered,  eyes  downcast,  quiet. 
Huelva's  words  came  in  a  torrent. 

"Things  go  from  bad  to  worse  here,  there  is  no  discipline, 
no  order:  the  spread  of  our  holy  religion  is  neglected,  while 
we  give  ourselves  to  idleness  and  music,  picture-making,  joy- 
ance,  and  all  disorder.  Here  is  heathen  idolatry  flourishing 
5n  your  capital,  tolerated.  Punishment  for  the  offenders !  I 
demand  instant  justice!" 

Penalosa  dandled  his  child.     "Disorder  is  indeed  rife,  Holy 


BARNABY   BRIGHT  83 

Father",  he  said.  "That  is  best  proven  by  yourself.  I  think 
Your  Paternity  takes  a  strange  way  of  seeking  order,  when 
you  so  far  forget  your  station  and  mine  that  you  break  unan 
nounced  and  blustering  upon  your  Governor,  more  like  a  tipsy 
soldier  reeling  to  barracks  than  one  headman  seeking  counsel 
with  another  for  the  good  of  the  state.  If  you  have  cause  of 
complaint  against  these  three,  set  it  forth  in  clear  words.  I 
will  see  justice  done." 

Huelva  quivered.  He  sought  to  control  himself.  Three 
words  or  four  he  spoke  calmly:  then  hate  seized  him,  he  shook 
with  that  passion.  "Lashes  for  this  red  child  of  hell ! — Lashes 
once  and  again  for  this  faithless  Priest!  Penance" — he 
whirled  on  Guevera — "penance  and  discipline  for  the  slothful 
shepherd !" 

"Now,  that  may  very  well  be,"  said  Penalosa,  arching  his 
silken  brows.  "But  I  must  remind  Your  Paternity  that  it  is 
the  custom  of  all  lands  to  know  and  name  the  crime  before 
sentence  is  meted;  and,  in  this  new  world  at  least,  we  some 
times  require  proof  to  the  accusation.  Again,  if  I  may  point 
it  out,  it  is  the  part  of  the  accuser  to  bear  witness:  it  is  for 
the  judge  to  weigh,  to  give  sentence  or  withhold  it.  And  it 
is  my  thought,"  said  Penalosa,  evenly,  "that  Your  Commis 
sary-ship  has  forgotten — again — who  is  judge  and  Governor 
in  Santa  Fe." 

"Do  you  bait  me,  then?"  gritted  Huelva. 

"Not  in  the  least,  Reverend  Father.  I  but  mention,  with 
admiration,  that  humility  to  which  you  are  sworn.  I  point  out 
the  seemly  bearing  which  befits  a  witness,  seeking — justice,  I 
believe  you  said?  No  more  than  that.  I  await  your  leisure. 
You  have  charges  to  prefer?" 

"Heresy!  blasphemy!  idolatry!  This  Pope  of  Tegua," 
cried  Huelva,  pointing,  "serves  the  devil  his  father!  He  was 
seen  and  heard  at  sunrise  of  this  morning,  practising  the  hell 
ish  rites  of  sun-worship:  this  Franciscan  Fuentes,  unprofitable 
servant  of  God,  lukewarm,  rebuked  him  with  pleasant  words, 
almost  smiling — I  saw  and  heard ! — while  this  Franciscan 
Guevera,  Head  of  his  Order  here,  looked  on,  consenting,  com 
placent." 

Penalosa  considered.     He  spoke  to  the  unknown  friar: 

"I  have  not  seen  you  before,  I  think?" 


84  WEST   IS   WEST 

Fuentes  raised  his  eyes.  "No,  Senor  Governor.  I  have  been 
afield  since  your  coming:  first  in  the  villages  of  the  Pecos, 
lately  in  Acoma  and  Sia.  I  am  Father  Fuentes. 

"Baltazar  Fuentes?  Yes?  I  have  heard  another  tale  of 
you  than  this — an  old  tale.  But  is  this  one  true?" 

"It  is,  Senor  Governor.  I  found  the  lad  in  sun-worship, 
even  as  Father  Huelva  has  stated.  The  boy  did  as  his  fathers 
taught  him:  made  no  concealment,  thought  no  wrong.  I  in 
structed  him  to  worship,  not  the  sun,  but  the  Maker  of  suns." 

"You  hear?"  cried  Huelva  in  great  voice.  "They  confess! 
The  lash  for  this  smooth-spoken  priest:  the  lash  for  the  heretic 
redskin,  death  if  he  bow  himself  before  hell  again." 

"I  have  no  great  relish  for  these  lashes  of  yours,  Father," 
quoth  Peiialosa.  "I  hold  that  Father  Fuentes  erred  greatly 
in  that  he  did  not  stress  the  enormity  of  the  offense:  that  is 
his  business.  I  recommend  him  to  the  discipline  of  his  Order. 
And  I  think",  said  Peiialosa  smoothly,  "that  this  is  a  fitting 
time  to  point  out  to  Your  Paternity  a  circumstance  which 
seems  to  have  escaped  your  notice:  that  the  servants  of  Saint 
Francis  make  no  demand  on  those  of  Saint  Dominic,  (already 
overburdened),  when  they  have  need  to  correct  a  sinful 
brother/' 

Huelva  glowered:  was  mute. 

"For  the  boy,  I  would  remind  you  that  we  are  few:  a  hand 
ful  of  Spaniards,  cast  down  in  a  wilderness  of  savage  nations, 
cut  off  from  any  succor  by  a  great  journey  and  waste  places. 
If  it  were  policy  alone,  it  sorts  well  with  our  wisdom  to  be 
plainly  just  in  the  eyes  of  these  barbarous  savages:  even  to 
smooth  justice  with  mercy.  It  is  a  rule  that  has  served  me 
well. 

"You  are  yourself  lax  in  the  faith,  long  suspected,"  growled 
Huelva,  taken  back  at  this  unexpected  turn. 

"I  will  make  an  end  of  suspicion  then,"  said  Don  Diego, 
eyes  a-dance.  "If  I  have  been  lax  aforetime,  I  will  be  lax 
still.  The  boy  shall  be  warned  and  instructed  in  our  true 
and  holy  faith:  no  hurt  shall  fall  to  him.  Why,  'tis  but  a 
child !  Bethink  you,  Father,  our  Lord  Christ  loved  children." 
Pefialosa  looked  down  at  that  brown-winsome  small  daughter 
of  his ;  summoning  the  nurse,  he  gave  the  child  to  her  keep 
ing;  dismissed  the  boy  Pope,  with  grave  monition:  turned  his 
mocking  eye  on  dark  Huelva. 


BARNABY   BRIGHT  85 

"Worshipped  the  sun,  did  he,  the  rascal?  Well,  I  do  not 
blame  him  greatly.  Holy  Father,  that  sun,  more  like  your 
hell  than  any  place  I  know,  is  yet  visible  Source  and  Giver 
of  Life:  small  wonder  if  the  savages  bow  down  to  it." 

Fanatic  rage  surged  to  Huelva's  brow.  "Blasphemer!"  he 
thundered.  "You  shall  burn  for  this!"  Guevera  trembled. 
Baltazar  eyed  his  new  Governor  with  interest. 

"It  may  be  as  you  say,"  said  Diego  carelessly.  "But  in  the 
meantime  I  am  lord  of  this  province,  answerable  for  safety 
and  upkeep:  my  will  is  peace  and  not  war.  To  the  better 
keeping  of  that  peace  I  think  it  altogether  needful  to  check 
your  meddling  tyranny  and  usurpations.  We  are  at  the 
world's  edge  here;  I  could  name  one  who  stands  in  more 
peril  than  Penalosa." 

"I  will  break  you  for  this  insolence — criollo!" 

Diego  sat  still  under  the  insult:  laughed  aloud.  "Breaking 
after  burning,  Father?  Come,  you  grow  reasonable;  my  poor 
ashes  could  bear  that.  It  pleases  me  to  see  your  arrogance 
dwindle;  you  move  in  the  right  direction;  I  mean  to  teach 
you  more  reason  still.  Man,  I  know  your  inches,  your  letters 
and  plots !  You  harried  de  Mendizaval,  you  were  millstone 
to  his  neck.  You  would  dispose  sovereignly  of  all  things, 
make  your  lord  and  governor  your  puppet.  You  have  med 
dled  with  affairs  of  mine  from  the  first;  conspired  against 
me:  tampered  with  my  dorados,  who  told  me  straightway. 
Meddler  and  marplot,  they  laugh  at  you;  would  cast  you  into 
prison  at  my  word." 

Huelva  thrust  out  his  chin.  "Not  one  would  dare  lay  hand 
on  the  minister  of  our  Most  Holy  Office  !  I  defy  you — creole ! 

"Now,  that  may  be  true,"  said  Penalosa,  softly,  "though  I 
think  you  do  some  injustice  to  their  daring.  Yet  the  anger 
of  the  Holy  Inquisition  is  a  thing  to  be  feared;  you  may  be 
right  after  all.  I  shall  not  put  them  to  the  test.  The  rather, 
because  I  know  one  whose  daring  has  never  failed  me:  a 
criollo!"  He  flashed  upon  Huelva,  hand  on  throat,  dagger 
to  heart.  "I  arrest  you  as  danger  to  the  state!" 

"Baseborn !"  gurgled  Huelva.  Diego's  hand  gripped 

his  windpipe,  the  keen  steel  drew  back.  Guevera  started  for 
ward  in  horror:  Fuentes  laid  a  large  hand  to  Guevera's  breast. 
Diego's  hand  loosed  its  clutch  a  little. 


86  WEST    IS    WEST 

"You  were  saying — ?"  said  Diego,  waiting. 

Huelva  saw  death  glitter  at  his  eyes.  "An  angry  word," 
he  muttered. 

"Which  you  regret,  doubtless?" 

Guevera's  knees  shook  with  terror.  Huelva's  desperate  eye 
rolled  to  him,  to  calm-eyed  Fuentes. 

"Which  you  regret?" 

"Which  I  regret,"  mumbled  Huelva. 

"And  you  yield  yourself  prisoner?" 

"Yes." 

Penalosa  plucked  off  his  hand:  the  Inquisitor  drew  sweet 
air  into  his  lungs  with  a  deep  breath,  sweetest  of  his  life. 
"Come,  we  grow  acquainted,"  said  Penalosa.  "You  shall  lie 
under  lock  and  key  in  the  next  room  till  you  make  submission ; 
with  fair  bread  and  water  to  purge  your  pride." 

"And  yet",  said  stubborn  Huelva,  "you  have  not  called  your 
guard." 

"You  speak  a  wise  word  there,"  laughed  Penalosa.  "You 
are  shrewd  and  stubborn,  you  shall  be  of  use  to  me  yet.  This 
is  a  perilous  matter:  my  golden  ones  shall  not  lay  finger  to  it, 
nor  know  it.  I  will  hold  you  prisoner  in  my  own  room;  we 
will  converse  together;  you  shall  meditate.  You  shall  be  help 
to  me  yet,  not  hindrance.  To  that  end,  I  will  have  you  turn 
your  thoughts  more  to  the  spread  of  our  Holy  Gospel,  and 
to  defence,  garrison,  treaties,  agriculture,  commerce:  with  less 
talk  of  lashings,  burnings  and  breakings.  Take  my  arm,  rever 
end  sir:  you  shall  seem  to  go  as  an  honored  guest,  in  friendly 
talk,  lest  rumor — perhaps  laughter — glance  upon  your  author- 
ity." 

"Which  friendly  talk  and  seeming  of  guest,"  returned 
Huelva  steadily,  "safeguards  your  own  authority  as  well  as 
mine." 

"You  shall  have  the  last  word,  too,"  said  Penalosa  gaily. 
"You  do  not  lack  for  brains,  I  find.  These  two  will  hold 
tongue  between  teeth,  both  for  our  sakes  and  their  own.  Will 
you  not  visit  your  room,  reverend  Father?" 

Penalosa  came  back  at  once.  He  pulled  a  long  face  and 
looked  a-slant  on  Fuentes,  ignoring  Guevera:  Guevera  says  it, 
he  tells  the  tale.  Yet  Guevera  was  of  the  grandees,  Fuentes 
peasant-born:  Penalosa  knew  to  judge  a  man. 

"Here  is  a  goodly  coil!"  says  Diego. 


BARNABY   BRIGHT  87 

"My  fault,  and  I  ask  pardon  for  it,"  says  Fuentes.  "I  was 
too  mild  with  the  boy,  too  stiff  with  the  Dominican." 

"No  fault  of  yours/'  says  Don  Diego.  "This  affair  was  to 
be  settled.  It  has  been  drawing  to  a  head  this  year.  The 
colony  is  in  no  posture  to  thrive  under  two  masters.  As  for 
mildness  and  easy  dealing  with  the  heathen,  that  is  root  and 
branch  of  my  policy,  I  stand  or  fall  by  that:  I  will  not  have 
the  colony  thrust  into  needless  hazard:  this  clash  was  bound 
to  come,  to-morrow  or  to-day.  Yet  it  is  my  poor  thought 
that  two  of  us  three  are  greatly  jeopardized.  Saint  Dominic 
carries  all:  if  I  cannot  tame  and  master  yonder  hooded-crow, 
the  Holy  Office  will  make  but  one  mouthful  of  the  two  of  us." 
He  considered  for  a  brief  silence.  "I  think  we  two  have  made 
history  this  day,"  said  Penalosa  laughing  lightly.  "I  think 
we  are  the  first,  in  the  New  World  at  least,  to  raise  finger 
against  the  Holy  Office.  It  might  be  a  wise  choice,  Father 
Fuentes,  if  you  elect  to  ply  your  labors  at  our  further  out 
posts.  Penalosa  might  weather  the  storm,  if  storm  there 
comes.  Time  will  show."  So  says  Guevera. 

Huelva  made  submission,  being  prisoner  seven  days.  It  is 
certain  that  Don  Diego  put  himself  out  to  ingratiat3  himself, 
to  captivate  his  captive;  it  is  like  that  Huelva  fell  under  his 
charm,  in  spite  of  fear,  humiliation,  fanatic  hate.  From  that 
time,  Diego  heaped  his  late  foe  with  high  employment  and 
honors.  Governor  and  Commissary-General  worked  hand-in- 
glove:  and  all  things  went  well  with  the  colony.  That  was 
the  golden  age  of  New  Mexico. 

In  1664,  Penalosa  returned  to  Mexico.  Three  months  and 
a  half  he  loitered  in  Parral,  "in  order  to  propose  to  the  Vice 
roy  the  conquest  of  those  countries  which  he  had  discovered." 
— That  loitering  was  his  bane.  In  Mexico  City,  the  Holy 
Office,  "which  never  pardons  anything  done  against  its 
supreme  authority,"  had  him  arrested:  pounced  upon  him  as 
he  dismounted  at  the  Viceroy's  door. 

In  the  north,  wavering  Guevera,  himself  a  Catalan,  gave 
Fuentes  warning  of  the  coming  storm.  Baltazan  Fuentes  took 
up  his  grandson  Timoteo  and  fled  away  into  the  wilderness: 
wandered  from  tribe  to  tribe^  befriended.  He  passed  south 
ward  in  a  long  valley  between  unknown  mountains,  met  and 
companied  a  wandering  family  of  the  Moqui;  turned  east- 


88  WEST    IS    WEST 

ward  across  a  high  mountain  to  the  haunted  valley  of  the 
Witch  Hills,  where  the  Moqui  rode  swiftly,  with  incantations : 
found  thereby  a  fair  high  table-land  walled  by  a  long,  red 
cliff,  in  which  was  a  cleft  pass  a  bare  lance-length  in  width, 
with  a  creek  of  sweet  water  therein:  for  a  day's  journey  on 
either  side  there  was  no  other  passway. 

Then  Father  Fuentes  lifted  up  his  eyes,  and  saw  that  the 
wilderness  was  very  great  and  he  was  very  small,  weak  and 
stricken  with  years.  He  tarried  at  that  red  pass  and  there 
laid  a  trap  for  souls.  Since  the  redskins  were  scattered  far, 
since  he  could  no  longer  seek  them  in  his  age,  they  should 
come  to  him  in  this  gateway:  seeking  those  pools  of  sweet 
water,  they  should  find  the  water  of  life. 

The  Moqui  aided  him  in  his  desire.  In  the  narrow  mouth 
of  that  red  pass  he  built  a  roof  of  hewn  cedar  into  the  living 
rock,  where  it  overhung  and  closed  together:  a  floor  of  cedar 
logs,  high  above  the  floodway;  rude  wall  and  door,  a  high 
stairway  to  that  door,  a  gate  at  the  water-way:  and  there,  on 
the  eleventh  of  June,  the  day  of  Saint  Barnabas  the  Apostle, 
he  founded  a  church  and  named  it  for  Saint  Barnabas. 

A  far  word  had  gone  forth  of  Fuentes ;  the  Sign  of  the  Left 
Breast,  "Goodheart,"  Father,  was  his  to  all  the  wandering 
tribes.  His  house  of  God  became  a  Place  of  Truce,  and  there 
he  preached  to  them  a  God  mighty  and  merciful. 

In  the  year  1680,  driven  by  exaction  and  outrage,  the  tribes 
of  New  Mexico  arose  and  exterminated  the  Spaniards,  root 
and  branch.  A  young  chief  of  the  Teguas  was  leader;  his 
name,  Pope.  It  was  a  well-planned  rising:  the  blow  was 
struck  in  all  places  at  the  same  hour,  sudden  and  swift.  A 
scanty  few — civilians,  soldiers,  priests,  women  and  children — 
outlived  the  first  butcher-work,  and  fled  south  with  Governor 
Otermin.  Where  the  mission  of  Socorro,  Nuestra  Senora  de 
Socorro,  was  afterwards  built  for  thankfulness,  they  were 
joined  by  other  fugitives,  a  strong  party  from  the  Pecos ;  made 
a  stand,  made  good  their  retreat  to  where  El  Paso  now  stands. 

Of  those  left  behind  but  two  were  spared  by  the  savages; 
Timoteo,  the  grandson  of  dead  Fuentes ;  and  Elena,  daughter 
of  Penalosa.  These  two  were  wedded  on  a  later  year:  housed 
themselves  at  a  great  spring  under  that  red  cliff,  not  far  from 
the  church  Fuentes  builded.  For  one  fourth  of  a  thousand 


BARNABY   BRIGHT  89 

years  their  descendants  have  dwelt  under  those  forgotten 
skies:  christened,  wedded,  buried  by  the  church  of  Saint 
Barnabas. 

The  Inquisition  kept  Penalosa  in  prison  for  thirty-two 
months,  "made  inquiry  into  all  his  actions  and  all  his  words." 
It  stripped  him  of  his  offices  and  declared  him  incapable  of 
holding  any  office  in  New  Spain.  It  sold  his  property  (to  it 
self)  for  eighty-six  thousand  crowns — worth  three  hundred 
thousand,  says  Penalosa :  fined  him  fifty-one  thousand  of  these 
crowns,  and  kept  the  other  thirty-five  thousand. 

Here  is  an  account  by  an  eye  witness,  of  a  "special"  Auto 
de  Fe  celebrated  at  the  convent  of  Santo  Domingo  on  the 
third  of  February  1668.  It  is  from  the  diary  of  Antonio  de 
Robles,  a  Pepys  of  Mexico. 

"There  also  came  forth  in  the  said  Auto  de  Fe,  Diego  de 
Penalosa,  governor  of  New  Mexico,  for  unrestrained  language 
(suelto  da  lengua,  leaps  of  the  tongue)  against  priests  and 
lords  inquisitors,  and  some  absurdities  which  bordered  on 
blasphemy.  He  came  out  in  a  shirt,  which  was  very  fine; 
dress  of  black  velvet;  his  hair  (which  was  his  own  and  long) 
well  dressed;  his  stockings  wrinkled;  very  large  hand-ruffles 
of  Flemish  point-lace,  then  used,  so  that  apparently  he  attired 
himself  on  purpose,  without  cloak  or  hat,  with  a  green  candle 
in  his  hand.  He  excited  much  compassion." 

You  may  judge  how  Penalosa  was  little  like  to  stomach  all 
this.  You  are  to  consider  that  the  man  had  seen  greatness  at 
his  finger-tips.  The  truth  is,  he  liked  it  not  at  all:  vowed 
revenge. 

Discredited,  penniless,  friendless,  without  employment:  poor 
antagonist  for  the  all-powerful  Inquisition!  Where  to  begin? 
Letters  to  Peru  were  unanswered:  Bishop-uncle  was  coy. 
Friends,  of  the  Grandee  sort,  ignored  him,  and  all  men  feared 
the  wrath  of  the  Holy  Office:  this  man,  guilty  of  the  first 
agent,  was  also  victim  of  the  first  blacklist. 

Haughty-stubborn  Penalosa  took  sneer  and  slight  of  silken 
Grandees  in  very  ill  part.  There  were  forbidden  duels ;  tough 
Penalosa  victor;  punishment  not  pushed  home.  We  may  hope 
that  this  unlooked-for  clemency  was  in  some  part  due  to 
grudging  admiration  for  the  man,  respect  for  unmerited  mis 
fortune:  it  is  certain  that  once  his  vanquished  antagonist 


90  WEST    IS    WEST 

pleaded  for  him.  And  authority  shrank  from  any  irrevocable 
affront  to  the  powerful  families  of  our  Diego's  kinsmen,  who 
had  drawn  together  to  a  sinister  and  sullen  faction,  during 
the  months  of  his  imprisonment.  Even  the  all-powerful  In 
quisition  had  not  quite  dared  Diego's  death.  In  fact,  they 
were  lenient  with  him — as  Inquisitors  go.  At  that  same  very 
special  Auto  which  condemned  Diego,  a  lesser  offender  and  of 
a  less  formidable  family,  one  Ferdinand  de  Tolosa,  received 
four  hundred  lashes  on  the  installment  plan,  and  was  banished 
to  the  Phillipine  Islands.  As  reverse  and  offset  to  this,  sullen 
Valdivias,  Ocampos,  Mayas,  feared  to  offend  the  Inquisition; 
his  life  safe,  they  reached  no  aid  to  their  black-sheep  kins 
man. 

It  would  be  shameful  to  tell  you  to  what  shifts  Diego  was 
driven  to  keep  bare  life:  Bishop-uncle  remaining  shy.  It  was 
the  bounty  of  an  old  foot-soldier  of  his  that  paid  for  passage 
to  Havana,  in  1669.  Havana,  once  saved  by  him,  received  him 
but  coldly:  the  terror  of  the  Inquisition  stalked  abroad.  Yet 
he  contrived  to  live:  lingered  there  for  many  months,  awaited 
letters  from  Peru:  none  coming. 

He  took  sail  at  last  in  a  Canary  Island  vessel  which  took 
him  to  the  Island  of  Teneriffe.  The  governor  was  Diego's 
cousin,  and  a  bigot.  He  received  his  broken  kinsman  kindly 
enough,  but  would  further  no  voyage  to  Spain.  Bearded  sea- 
captains,  at  Pefialosa's  askings,  looked  a-slant  at  him, 
whispered,  shook  their  heads. 

Penalosa  was  resolved  for  Spain  and  justice.  It  was  a 
time  of  truce:  he  took  ship  under  an  English  heretic:  landed 
in  London.  He  gained  favor  with  the  English  king  and  the 
Duke  of  York,  who  were  keen  to  hear  of  that  great  river  of 
his,  the  Mischipi  or  Panada,  and  the  rich  country  of  Quivira. 
But  the  Marquis  de  Fresno  and  the  Count  de  Molina,  Spanish 
Ambassadors,  threw  discredit  upon  him,  gave  him  cold  looks ; 
told  King  James  that  this  was  a  contumacious  rebel,  a  man 
not  allowed  to  set  foot  in  Spain:  Spanish  justice!  Diego  saw 
at  last  how  useless  it  was  to  seek  redress  of  Spain. 

Each  rebuff  and  insult  made  deeper  his  haughty-stubborn 
hate,  firmer  his  purpose;  at  each  fresh  wrong,  Penalosa 
tightened  his  belt  and  set  his  grim  face  to  his  task.  He  held 
that  "leaping"  tongue  of  his  in  leash  now,  pondered  deeply 


BARNABY   BRIGHT  91 

on  new-world  maps,  probed  Spain  for  the  weak  joint  in  her 
armor.  He  was  American-born;  to  his  death-day  he  never 
put  foot  to  Spanish  soil.  The  ambassadors  persecuted  him 
afresh,  intrigued  against  him,  sought  his  life  at  the  hands  of 
secret  bravos — luckless  ! — heaped  infamy  upon  him,  quite  cast 
down  his  credit  at  the  court;  drove  him  out  at  last. 

He  proceeded  to  France,  threw  himself  "upon  the  protec 
tion  of  the  greatest  king  in  the  world."  Spanish  ambassadors, 
Marquis  de  Los  Balazes  and  others,  looked  upon  him  coldly, 
expressed  "distrust  of  his  stay  in  France." 

By  this  time,  Pefialosa's  purpose  was  shaped  and  hardened. 
Taking  a  hint  from  the  English  king,  who  had  shown  so 
much  interest  in  that  river  of  Mischipi,  he  set  himself  to  turn 
France  to  that  great  river,  to  throw  France  against  Spain  in 
the  New  World.  He  made  it  his  life-work — and  he  succeeded. 

By  now  he  knew  himself  to  be  a  marked  man;  knew  that 
he  was  to  mix  no  more  at  first  hand  with  the  affairs  of  the 
great.  He  accepted  that  fact,  humbled  himself,  drew  into 
the  background.  He  sought  for  his  middleman:  found  him 
in  the  young  Sieur  de  La  Salle,  an  adventurer  whose  imagina 
tion  was  fired  by  a  storied  river  he  was  to  follow  from  the 
Great  Lakes  for  an  eight  months'  journey  to  the  Gulf  of 
California — Road  to  China! 

Penalosa  threw  himself  into  La  Salle's  party,  pushed  La 
Salle's  fortunes  with  all  his  genius.  More  especially  he  bent 
his  intrigues  to  tempt  the  cupidity  and  ambition  of  the  Grand 
Monarch  with  the  richness  of  the  Gran  Quivira. 

From  this  time,  Penalosa  becomes  a  thin  and  shadowy 
figure.  There  is  a  glimpse  of  him  at  the  house  of  one  M. 
Morel,  where  he  dined  in  company  with  La  Salle  and 
Beaujeu.  He  knew  shallows  and  miseries.  Rumor  makes  him* 
fencing  master — a  good  one — under  the  assumed  name  of 
Pinito  Pino. — And,  year  after  year,  trackless  rumors  of 
Quivira  swell  cumulative,  beat  on  the  ear  of  King  and  court 
and  France,  turn  all  eyes  that  way;  La  Salle  is  listened  to, 
applauded,  encouraged;  gets  his  chance:  France  is  committed 
to  the  "Mischipi". 

Penalosa,  or  a  thin  ghost  of  him,  haunts  the  antechambers 
of  the  Tuilleries :  patient  now,  this  son  of  the  Conquistadores ; 
that  leaping  tongue  of  his  schooled  to  silence.  There  is  a 


92  WEST    IS    WEST 

"Memorial"  of  his,  "On  the  Affairs  of  America"  given  to 
Monsieur  de  Seignelai,  Minister  of  the  Marine:  it  sets  forth 
the  facility  with  which  New  Biscay  may  be  conquered,  a 
colony  established:  "an  enterprise  more  ruinous  to  the  Spanish 
monarchy  than  in  any  other  place  where  his  majesty  can 
attack."  There  are  alternative  plans,  with  details.  French 
"Fribustiers"  from  Santo  Domingo  are  to  make  the  attack, 
under  their  own  chief,  Grammont;  Peiialosa  is  to  be  guide. 

"He  believes  that  he  cannot  give  better  pledges  of  his 
fidelity  than  by  putting  himself,  without  a  single  other 
countryman  of  his  own,  among  a  thousand  or  twelve  hundred 
warlike  Frenchmen,  and  at  the  discretion  of  the  French  com 
mander,  who  is  to  lead  them  with  him,  and  to  whom  he  says 
orders  may  be  given  to  hang  him  on  the  first  tree,  if  he  fails 
in  any  promise  he  makes." 

Other  "Memoirs,"  too  many:  one,  "touching  the  establish 
ment  of  a  new  colony  at  the  mouth  of  the  river  called  Rio 
Bravo." — a  project  carried  out  somewhat  later,  by  Philip 
Nolan  and  others. 

At  last — victory !  French  Government  consents ;  La  Salle's 
foray  to  New  Biscay,  Penalosa's  to  Panuco,  are  mutually  to 
support  each  other:  La  Salle's  to  go  first.  It  is  1684:  Pefi- 
alosa  is  sixty  years  old:  La  Salle  sails  from  La  Rochelle  in 
July.  Alas !  A  luckless  expedition,  and  bungled ;  the 
Spaniards  were  alert,  energetic;  La  Salle  unfit:  French  Gov 
ernment  loses  heart,  abandons  both  La  Salle  in  Texas  and 
Peiialosa  in  France.  Beaujeu  and  the  Abbe  Cavalier  records 
how  eagerly  they  awaited  the  reinforcements  under  Penalosa 
till  the  end  of  1686.  Penalosa  died  in  Paris  on  almost  the 
same  day  that  La  Salle  perished  in  Texas. 

On  this  tormented  planet  perhaps  there  has  been  no  man, 
missing  greatness,  who  came  so  near  that  frantic  blame  and 
praise  which  men  call  Fame,  and  prize  so  strangely,  as  this 
baffled  Peiialosa.  He  set  a  bound  to  the  empire  of  Spain, 
that  dim  adventurer;  his  dream  became  Louisiana;  his  hand 
was  first  in  America  to  strike  a  blow  for  freedom,  first  to 
dare  the  Inquisition:  be  that  his  epitaph.  Bancroft  terms 
him  imposter,  perhaps  because  the  Inquisition  indicted  him 
as  "embustero."  I  prefer  the  testimony  of  Pope  the  Tegua, 
who  knew  the  man  and  spared  his  love-child. — It  is  so  long 
ago ! — the  word  cannot  harm  her  now. 


CHAPTER  V 

FUENTES 

"I'M  glad  we  didn't  go  on  last  night.  Wouldn't  have  missed 
this  for  a  farm/'  declared  John  Sayles,  looking  up  between 
the  narrow  walls  to  a  rift  of  blue  sky. 

"Thought  you'd  enjoy  it,"  said  Emil.  "Folks  do.  No  use 
going  further,  though.  We've  seen  the  best.  Cliffs  get  lower 
from  here  on." 

They  turned  back  down  the  Z-shaped  pass,  John  Sayles 
riding  sidewise  and  debonair.  They  rode  under  the  cedar 
floor  of  the  little  church:  John  Sayles  checked  the  Paint 
horse  and  looked  back. 

"Sixteen-sixty-four !  Why  that  was  the  year  the  English 
took  over  New  York,  wasn't  it?" 

"Search  me!"  said  Emil.  "It's  been  a  right  smart  spell, 
anyhow.  The  contractor  put  just  such  wood  into  Solomon's 
temple,  but  the  old  Fuentes  person  put  it  all  over  Solomon 
in  the  matter  of  walls.  Of  course,  there's  been  repairing 
done  as  needed.  The  Fuentes  genie  saw  to  that.  Doors  have 
never  been  locked,  and  that  mess  of  silver  candlesticks  and 
truck  is  the  original  outfit.  Don't  say  anything  about  it  when 
you  get  back  to  New  York,  will  you?" 

"But  why  didn't  the  Fuentes  crowd  settle  here  ?" 

"They  did — the  first  pair —  for  a  year  or  two.  Then  they 
moved.  For  one  thing,  the  new  homestead  is  level  and  easy 
to  irrigate.  You  maybe  notice  that  this  is  steepish  country, 
right  here.  Better  soil  there,  too,  and  more  water.  I  reckon 
Fuentes  spring  is  a  natural  artesian  well,  and  that  some  med 
dlesome  guy  will  bore  and  find  heap  water  thereabouts,  some 
day.  But  I  judge  the  main  reason  for  moving  was  that  the 
Indians  accepted  this  place  as  holy  ground.  Neutral  ground 
anyhow:  there  hasn't  been  a  man  killed  at  this  water,  red  or 

93 


94  WEST    IS    WEST 

white,  since  the  day  grandpa  Fuentes  stopped  his  rambling 
about  and  settled  down  here.  The  Indians  set  a  heap  of 
store  by  grandpa,  it  seems.  I  reckon  maybe  his  folks  Hgured 
that  this  was  God's  Ground  and  felt  backward  about  jumping 
the  claim  on  Him. — Let's  go !" 

Their  camp  was  under  the  cliff,  half  a  mile  north  from 
church  and  water.  When  they  had  hitched  up  and  were  ready 
to  start,  Emil  paused  and  looked  around  him. 

"I  declare,  this  is  a  right  pleasant  place  here,"  he  said. 
"Guess  I'll  locate  this  camp  as  a  homestead  for  myself,  if 
you'll  be  a  witness." 

"Homestead?"  echoed  John  Sales.  "You're  never  going  to 
bring  your  cattle  out  here,  that  much  further  from  a  market?" 

"Oh,  no.  Cattle  would  go  right  back,  and  they're  in  a  good 
place  now,"  said  Emil  tranquilly.  "Besides,  this  is  Fuentes 
country.  They  wouldn't  like  it  for  me  to  crowd  in  with  cat 
tle."  From  one  of  the  side  curtains  he  produced  paper  and 
pencil. 

"But  what  do  you  want  of  a  homestead,  then?" 

"Live  here.  Good  neighborhood."  Emil  nodded  his  head 
toward  the  church  of  Barnaby  Bright  and  began  writing. 

"But  there's  no  water." 

"Haul  it  up.     Or  dig." 

"Humph — dig!  How  far  would  you  have  to  dig,  do  you 
think?" 

"Don't  think — I  know,"  said  Emil  writing  industriously. 
"Six  hundred  feet." 

"Really?  What's  the  joke?  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me 
you  can  see  that  far  down,  I  hope?" 

"Not  down,"  said  Emil,  patiently.  "In — in  and  a  little 
up."  He  jerked  his  pencil  over  his  shoulder  at  the  over 
hanging  cliff.  "It's  just  about  six  hundred  feet  straight  in 
from  here  to  the  second  elbow  of  Barnaby  Bright  Pass,  where 
we  turned  back  awhile  ago,  as  I  figure  it.  Creek  full  of  water 
there.  You  sign  here  and  we'll  go.  Ought  to  have  two  wit 
nesses,  I  reckon.  I'll  get  somebody  else  to  stop  as  he  is  pass 
ing  by,  and  put  his  name  to  it." 

John  Sayles  signed:  Emil  built  a  little  monument  of  stone, 
took  an  empty  baking  powder  tin  from  the  chuck-box,  slipped 
his  location  notice  in  this,  and  placed  the  tin  in  the  manu- 
ment. 


FUENTES  95 

"Tell  me  some  more  about  the  Fuentes  clan,"  said  John 
Sayles  when  they  were  on  the  road  again.  "I  listened  to  all 
the  cowboys  talk  in  San  Clemente,  and  asked  all  the  ques 
tions  I  knew,  but  none  of  them  over  mentioned  the  name  of 
Fuentes." 

"That's  easy.  The  Fuentes  cattle  have  all  been  raised 
right  here,  and  the  mammies  of  'em,  and  their  mammies.  They 
are  at  home,  those  cattle. — They  don't  want  to  go  anywhere 
else,  and  they  wouldn't  stay  anywhere  else.  The  Fuentes 
people  don't  have  to  attend  the  roundups,  and  so  they  don't 
figure  much  in  camp-fire  talk.  Also,  there  isn't  just  one  big 
brand,  but  fifteen  or  thirty  little  brands.  That  makes  it  easy 
not  to  talk  about  their  cattle." 

"They  keep  sheep,  too,  you  tell  me.  And  I've  always 
heard  that  sheepmen  and  cattlemen  were  traditional  enemies. 
Yet  you  seem  friendly  enough  to  these  people." 

"Shucks,"  said  Emil.  "We  don't  enjoy  sheep  drifting  on 
our  ranges,  especially  when  the  range  is  neither  ours  or  the 
sheepmen's,  but  Uncle  Sam's.  This  bunch  keeps  their  sheep 
on  their  own  range,  and  they  never  bother  anyone.  They 
run  their  sheep  north  of  their  town  and  their  cows  down  this 
way.  Your  own  folks,  the  N-8  outfit,  are  the  closest  neigh 
bors,  and  they  get  on  fine  with  the  Fuentes  genie.  They're 
right  nice  folks,  and  that's  a  fact.  I'm  not  right  sure  but 
what  they're  the  best  we've  got.  You  lay  over  a  day  and  get 
acquainted.  You'll  like  'em." 

"Are  they  all  Mexicans?" 

"Well,  I  think  you  might  maybe  call  them  Americans — con- 
siderin',"  said  Emil  mildly.  "They  may  almost  be  called 
the  first  Americans,  you  might  say.  But  they're  not  all  of  the 
Spanish  blood,  if  that's  what  you  mean.  Two  or  three  gener 
ations  ago,  a  wild  pack  of  Scotch  strolled  down  the  moun 
tain  from  Canada — a  mess  of  Murrays  and  Mars  and  Stewarts 
— and  the  Fuentes  people  married  up  with  them  considerable. 
Like  I  told  you  last  night,  the  Fuentes  family  think  them 
selves  the  pick  of  the  bunch — proud  as  old  man  Lucifer. 
Seems,  though,  that  they  allowed  these  Scotch  lads  was  in 
their  class — for  they  sure  assimilated  them  a-plenty.  And 
during  the  war,  in  sixty-two,  we  sent  a  crowd  up  here  to 
fix  the  map  over." 


96  WEST   IS   WEST 

"We?"  said  John  Sayles,  interrupting. 

"Texas.  My  dad  was  one  of  them.  But  the  Mexicans 
didn't  want  the  map  monkeyed  with.  We  cleaned  up  the  regu 
lars,  but  the  Mexicans  give  us  a  damn  good  lickin'  at  Glorieta 
Pass.  Oh,  yes,  there  was  more  of  'em  than  there  was  of  us. 
That  was  their  privilege ;  that's  part  of  the  game — outnumber 
the  other  fellows  when  you  can:  no  kick  about  that.  Well, 
sir,  they  just  naturally  wiped  up  the  face  of  the  earth  with 
us."  Emil  paused  to  laugh  at  himself.  "Us?  I've  heard 
tell  about  it  so  much  that  I  almost  forget  I  wasn't  there." 

"Why,  I  never  even  heard  that  the  war  touched  this  coun 
try,"  said  John  Sayles. 

"Nope.  No  press-agent.  But  it's  like  I'm  telling  you. 
And  after  they  turned  us  back,  they  never  let  up  on  us,  day 
or  night.  Chased  us  four  hundred  miles,  into  the  brush  be 
yond  El  Paso.  The  boys  split  up  every  which  way,  so  at  least 
some  of  'em  could  get  away.  Scared  ?  Hell,  no !  Stubborn. 
Didn't  want  to  surrender — especially  after  all  the  big  talk 
they'd  made.  Heap  easier  to  surrender  than  to  run.  Mighty 
few  of  them  got  through.  My  dad  was  eight  months  reachin' 
San  Antone,  and  he  was  half  scarecrow  and  half  skeleton 
when  he  made  it.  I  reckon  they  had  a  sorry  time  of  it,  poor 
boys.  That's  all  they  was,  John — just  boys,  like  you.  Over 
in  the  San  Andres  once,  I  found  where  one  of  'em  had  hid 
his  saddle  in  a  big  juniper.  Wild  grapevines  growin'  clear 
to  the  top  of  the  tree.  So  I  dug  there  for  water — grapevines 
are  sure  watersign,  you  know.  After  a  spell  I  spied  the  sad 
dle  way  up  in  the  top — an  old  McClellan.  Four  or  five  years 
after,  I  found  one  of  his  spurs,  up  on  top  of  a  big  hill,  over- 
lookin'  the  water.  I've  often  wondered  about  him."  Emil 
fell  into  a  musing  silence,  and  roused  himself  with  an  effort, 
sighing. 

"I  bet  his  mother  thought  he  was  the  finest  baby  that  ever 
happened.  Wonder  if  he  got  through?  .  .  .  What  was  I 
going  to  say  ?  Oh,  yes !  Well,  the  Fuentes  boys,  they  was 
among  those  present  at  the  fighting  and  the  chasing;  they 
liked  the  old  map,  just  the  way  it  was.  And  they  brought  back 
a  lot  of  prisoners.  So  the  girls  nursed  'em  back  to  life, 
looked  'em  over  and  married  the  likeliest  of  'em — Caldwells 
and  Hills  and  a  Claiborne  or  two.  They  fatted  the  rest  of 


FUENTES  97 

'em  up  and  turned  'em  loose.  Mighty  particular,  the  Fuentes 
stock.  So  if  you  contemplate  matrimony  much — what  are  you 
laughing  at?  Just  you  wait  till  you  see  the  reigning  belle. 
She's  one  raving  little  beauty,  Helen  is — Miss  Elena  Mar 
Fuentes — here's  to  her!  Good  kid,  too." 

"Really — this  is  so  sudden/'  laughed  the  boy.  "I — I  am 
too  young  yet." 

"Well,  I'm  telling  you,"  said  Emil.  "If  your  'family  tree 
isn't  just  about  the  proper  thing  in  trees,  you'll  save  your 
self  trouble  by  riding  straight  on  to  the  N-8  ranch  today." 

"Fuentes  must  be  quite  a  town,"  remarked  John  Sayles. 

"No.  Maybe  a  hundred  people.  Not  counting  kids:  they 
just  estimate  them,  there's  so  many.  They  wander  off  to  the 
outside  as  they  grow  up,  mostly,  of  late  years  especially.  You 
find  them  everywhere.  Good  stock:  a  finger  in  every  pie. 
We'll  soon  be  in  sight  of  the  town.  John  Sayles,  you'd  better 
tell  me  something  about  your  grandfather  and  his  grand 
father,  just  in  case.  Old  Timoteo  will  be  wanting  to  know, 
when  you  begin  making  sheep's  eyes  at  little  Helen." 

John  Sayles  elevated  his  eyebrow.  "You  think  I  will  cer 
tainly  do  that?" 

"Young  man,"  said  Emil  severely,  "if  I  thought  you 
wouldn't,  I'd  tip  this  wagon  over  on  you.  Mind  you,  it  will 
do  you  no  good  unless  your  family  has  been  drawn  and  quar 
tered:  but  when  little  Helen's  eyes  say  Come,  you'll  never 
stop  to  ask  Where.  You'll  go.  And  sing!  Oh,  man!  Wait 
till  she  springs  one  of  those  old  Spanish  canciones  on  you ! 
Or  the  old  Scotch  songs,  for  that  matter.  Helen  of  Kirkcon- 
nel,  frinstance.  Ask  her  for  that." 

"I'm  waiting!"  declared  the  boy  gaily.  "And  now  how 
about  the  N-8  people?  You  haven't  wised  me  up  on  them." 

"Good  waddies,  every  one.  Only  four  of  'em,  you  know; 
it's  only  a  little  outfit.  Spike  Gibson  is  the  foreman.  Wise 
old  bird.  You  hearken  to  Spike.  No  kin  to  old  man  Gibson. 
Spike  hates  him  worse  than  poison.  Don't  blame  him  much — 
the  old  man  is  one  bad  actor.  But  Spike,  he's  a  real  person* 
You  follow  Spike's  dust  and  you'll  be  all  right." 

"Mr.  James,"  said  John  Sayles  diffidently,  "do  you  think  I 
can  ever  get  to  ride  wild  horses  like  the  boys  do?" 

"Sure  you  can.     Any  one  can  do  it  that's  got  the  nerve 


98  WEST    IS    WEST 

and  no  intelligence.  Why,  Steve  tells  me  you  forked  that 
Redlegs  like  an  old-timer." 

"But  he  was  all  tired  out/'  objected  John  Sayles.  "I 
couldn't  stay  on  at  all  until  he  wore  himself  out  bucking 
in  that  deep  sand.  Anyway,  I  think  he  was  ashamed  to 
throw  me  off  any  more,  and  let  me  stay  on  at  the  last  just 
to  please  me  and  by  way  of  being  polite." 

"Son,"  said  Emil,  "that's  the  right  spirit,  but  you've  got 
me  all  mixed  up.  If  you've  got  sense  enough  to  know  that, 
why  aren't  you  smart  enough  to  let  some  one  else  ride  the 
wild  ones — hey?  Tell  me,  did  Steve  let  the  hammer  down?" 

"Did  Steve — what?" 

"Did  Steve  uncock  Redlegs  for  you?" 

"I  don't  get  you — that  is  to  say,  pawdon  me,  me  good  man?" 

"Did  Mister  Stephen  Wildcat  Thompson,  Esquire,  ride  that 
pet  of  his  first  to  take  a  little  of  the  triple  extract  of  con 
centrated  hell  out  of  him?" 

"He  did  not,"  said  John  Sayles  indignantly.  "What  do 
you  take  me  for?" 

"Well,  then,"  said  Emil,  "you  know  the  worst.  When  you 
can  ride  Redlegs  in  the  first  fine  careless  rapture,  as  Pierre 
Hines  describes  it,  you've  done  learned  a  trade.  Now  what 
are  you  looking  so  thoughtful  about?" 

"Why — I  wondered—  John  Sayles  hesitated  a  moment, 

and  then  blurted  out  the  question  that  had  been  trembling 
on  his  lip  for  days.  "What  have  all  you  people  got  against 
Mr.  Logan,  that  nobody  mentions  his  name?" 

"Him?"  said  Emil  in  well-feigned  surprise.  "Why,  Lo 
gan's  been  gone  away  for  quite  some  years.  I  reckon  we've 
pretty  nigh  forgot  him." 

"You  haven't  forgotten  other  people,  I  notice — and  some  of 
them  dead  and  gone  three  hundred  years.  Nate  Logan  has 
not  forgotten  you,  I  can  tell  you  that:  he  told  me  you  were 
all  fine  people:  he  keeps  the  old  N-8  ranch  and  brand  that 
he  needs  just  as  much  as  I  need  a  teething-ring.  You  make 
me  feel  that  this  concerted  silence  is  your  way  of  talking 
scandal." 

"I'll  tell  you  how  it  is/'  said  Emil.  "Since  Nate  left  us 
he  got  to  be  a  big  man — millionaire,  railroad-maker  and  all 
that.  So  all  this  no-talk  that  you  notice  is  maybe-so  pure 
envy  on  our  part." 


FUENTES  99 

John  Sayles  saw  that  his  question  was  evaded:  he  was 
puzzled  and  hurt  by  it. 

That  night  John  Sayles  sat  in  an  old  garden  of  Fuentes 
town,  and  listened  entranced  to  the  dim  sagas  of  three  cen 
turies.  Stately  Don  Timoteo  told  those  old  tales  with  grave 
and  measured  cadences,  stroking  his  long,  gray  beard:  young 
Tim,  facing  him  across  the  table,  drank  in  the  high  talk:  his 
eye  sparkled,  his  smooth  face  flushed  with  pride:  while  his 
cousin,  young  Billy  Murray,  listened  sullenly,  his  eyes  on 
the  table.  Contrary  to  prediction,  the  bright  eyes  of  Helen 
Fuentes  left  John  Sayles  unfluttered.  He  was  too  much 
taken  up  with  the  delight  of  his  first  personal  touch  with 
ancient  romance:  and  dainty  Helen,  demure  at  her  grand 
father's  side,  felt  herself  half-resentful  of  this  careless 
stranger. 

Then  came  Lone  Miller,  riding  late  from  the  Malibu.  For 
him,  supper  was  served  afresh  under  the  ancient  apple-tree; 
for  him,  the  talk  was  turned  to  last  week's  catastrophe  at  the 
Golden  Fleece,  with  courteous  questionings  from  Don  Timo 
teo,  soft  exclamations  from  Elena.  Miller  made  but  a  sorry 
tale  of  it,  slurring  his  own  great  part. 

"That  was  well  done  indeed:  that  day  should  earn  a  song, 
the  wages  of  the  brave.  But  why  did  you  not  send  here 
for  assistance?"  said  Don  Timoteo  regretfully.  "We  were 
closer  than  San  Clemente:  my  young  men  would  have  gone 
gladly,  proud  to  have  borne  a  part  in  that  great  labor. — Or 
to  the  Morgans,  who  were  even  closer?  I  love  not  the  Mor 
gans  very  greatly,  but  I  am  very  sure  they  would  have  proved 
good  men  in  your  need." 

"But  you  see,  your  people  are  not  miners — except  Billy 
here,"  said  Miller,  smiling  as  he  laid  his  hand  on  young 
Billy's  shoulder.  Old  Timoteo  frowned:  Billy  Murray's  min 
ing  was  like  to  win  for  the  young  man  a  bride  not  to  the 
old  man's  liking.  Miller  went  on: 

"For  the  Morgans,  though  they  were  nearest  of  all,  they 
are  few  and  scattered,  they  ride  abroad  too  much:  we  could 
not  chance  finding  them:  it  was  a  matter  of  hours  or  min 
utes.  Nor  are  the  Morgans  miners,  for  all  their  name  and 
blood." 

After  a  little,  at  the  urging  of  John  Sayles,  the  talk  went 


100  WEST    IS    WEST 

back  to  the  old  days.  They  were  down  as  far  as  1770  now, 
to  Baltazar  the  Dream-Maker,  and  his  song  of  the  Witch 
Hills.  But  Billy  Murray  would  smoke. 

"Here  is  too  much  talk  of  ancestors,  too  much  senseless 
pride,"  declared  Billy,  hotly  rebellious.  "They  are  all  clean 
daft  about  their  Penalosa,  and  Stewarts  and  Murrays,  and 
the  whole  weary  clamjamphrey  of  'em.  We  are  all  Americans. 

"The  old  jefe  still  objects  to  Katie  Quinn,  then?"  said 
Emil,  sympathetically. 

"Object?  Goodness,  Agnes,  I  should  say  so!  The  one 
crime  he  can't  forgive  is  not  being  an  aristocrat.  I'm  fed 
up  with  it.  I'm  off.  Going  to  San  Clemente  tomorrow,  and 
take  on  with  Tom  Quinn  again.  Miller  and  me,  we've  found 
a  good  vein  of  soft  coal,  way  beyond  the  San  Quentin.  Mil 
ler  tell  you  of  it?" 

"Yes." 

"It  will  be  a  big  thing  some  day,  when  the  railroad  runs 
through  here.  Van  Atta  split  a  big  bunch  of  money  to  all 
the  Golden  Fleece  men.  Made  'em  take  it:  swore  up  and 
down  it  was  no  bonus  but  money  earned ;  wouldn't  take  nary 
No  for  an  answer.  With  that  and  what  I  can  earn  in  the 
mines,  Miller's  going  to  develop  our  coal  claim." 

"And  you're  going  to  become  an  ancestor  yourself?" 

Billy's  blush  could  be  seen  by  starlight. 

"Well,  you  needn't  stammer  about  it,"  said  Emil.  "She's 
a  fine  girl,  Katie.  None  better.  And  you'll  get  no  better 
pardner  than  Lone  Miller,  either." 

Billy  glanced  at  his  friend,  troubled:  opened  his  mouth  for 
speech,  but  thought  better  of  it. 

"And  Miller  is  my  rival,  too?  Is  that  what  you  are  not 
saying?  Well,  much  good  it  does  us.  I  am  thinking  that 
Bennie  Morgan  will  never  marry  any  man  now,"  said  Emil, 
simply  and  without  shame.  "But  if  she  does — well,  that  was 
a  true  word  I  was  saying  of  Miller:  and  if  Bennie  May  ever 
marries,  she  will  find  no  better  mate  than  the  quiet  little 
man  in  yonder.  Billy,  if  you  ever  have  a  grudge  at  old  Emil, 
you  get  Doc  Hughes  to  tell  Bennie  about  Miller  at  the  Golden 
Fleece.  Gad!  the  old  scoundrel  ha/clus  fair  blubberin'!  No 
surprise,  of  course:  we  knew  Miller  was  all  there:  Bennie 
knows.  But  she  ought  to  hear  Doc  tell  the  story,  at  that !" 


CHAPTER  VI 

PURSUIT   OF    HAPPINESS 

THE  next  morning,  Miller  rode  on  with  John  Sayles  to  the 
N-8  ranch,  where  he  purposed  to  buy  a  team  for  his  new 
venture. 

"Now  Billy,"  said  Emil.  "Let's  you  and  me  make  two 
swaps:  one  for  temporary  accommodation  to  both  of  us  and 
one  for  keeps.  You  let  me  have  a  horse  and  your  saddle:  and 
you  drive  my  team  back  to  town.  That  will  be  easier  for  you, 
and  I'll  wander  in  later." 

"Got  you!"  said  Billy.  "You  can  take  Ginger.  What 
else?" 

"I  want  a  third  interest  in  that  coal  mine  you  and  Miller 
found." 

"Oh,  you  do?"  jeered  Billy.  "What  you  got  to  trade  that's 
worth  having,  I'd  like  to  know?  That  coal  mine  is  a  big 
thing." 

"I'll  give  you  a  third  interest  in  something  just  as  big. 
Trade  with  you,  sight  unseen." 

"Give  it  a  name,  anyhow." 

"One-third  interest  in  the  most  valuable  homestead  in  the 
world,"  said  Emil.  "And  you  can  see  it  yourself,  while  I 
take  your  word  for  the  coal.  Your  word  is  good.  Only  I 
want  your  name  as  witness  to  my  homestead  notice.  Located 
it  yesterday — half  a  mile  north  of  Barnaby  Bright." 

"Half  a  mile  north?  What  in  thunder  is  the  good  of  a 
homestead  there,  I'd  like  to  know?" 

"I  didn't  word  that  right,  anyhow,"  said  Emil.  "I  can't 
promise  anyone  an  interest  in  my  homestead.  Got  to  swear 
to  that  when  I  make  my  entry.  What  I  mean  to  say  is  that 
I'll  give  you  fellows  a  third  of  whatever  I  get  for  sale  of  a 
right-of-way  across  my  homestead.  I  located  at  the  foot  of 

101 


102  WEST    IS    WEST 

the  cliff  just  opposite  the  last  bend  in  Barnaby  Bright  Pass, 
and  the  papers  call  for  four  forties  due  west.  That  takes  in 
most  of  the  Pass:  a  ready-made  tunnel  worth  three  million 
to  the  railroad  that  is  bound  to  come  some  day,  and  that  must 
go  through  Barnaby  Bright." 

"Hell!"  said  Billy..  "Now,  why  couldn't  I  think  of  that? 
And  m<j  Lorn  and  raised  here!  All  right,  sir,  it's  a  trade — 
and  there  goes  part  of  a  perfectly  good  coal  mine!" 

"Cheer  up  !  Your  coal  mine — I  mean  our  coal  mine — won't 
be  any  good  till  the  railroad  reaches  it.  You  haven't  lost 
anything.  And  I'll  help  put  up  for  development  work.  You 
come  on  down  an  witness  my  location  notice.  Then  you'd 
better  wait  here  till  Miller  comes  back  and  break  the  news  to 
him.  'Tisn't  strictly  necessary  to  tell  anyone  else,  till  I  get 
ready  to  build  me  a  house.  I've  got  six  months  to  start  it. 
'Twouldn't  be  a  bad  idea  for  you  to  locate  the  west  end  of 
the  Gap,  too.  My  claim  doesn't  cover  all  of  it." 

"I'll  do  that,"  said  Billy. 

"All  right,  then— I'll  tell  the  old  don  adios  and  we'll  go. 
I'll  give  you  an  order  on  the  store  for  my  part  of  the  truck: 
may  not  be  in  till  the  roundup  starts." 

The  homestead  notice  was  witnessed,  and  Billy  turned  back 
to  Fuentes.  Emil  rode  south  across  the  flat  to  Malibu  Moun 
tain,  to  a  caiion  fronting  the  north — Mockingbird,  latest  home 
of  the  Morgans. 

Emil  rode  slowly.  The  dim  trail  he  followed  held  arrow- 
straight  to  the  mouth  of  Mockingbird,  crossing  the  innumer 
able  little  winding  ridges  and  draws  that  fell  away  from  the 
base  of  Red  Mesa. 

He  passed  the  last  of  the  Fuentes'  herds  and  was  not  yet 
come  to  the  outmost  line  of  the  Morgan  cattle:  the  tall  grama 
rippled  in  gray  waves  to  his  feet;  quartz  and  mica  sparkled 
and  shone  in  the  hills  before  him.  Then  the  breeze  died 
away,  the  sun  beat  down  through  the  hushed  air.  The  heat 
rose  quivering,  visible ;  the  hills  dimmed  and  blurred  in  a  haze 
of  luminous  dust-motes,  the  far  off  sands  became  a  dazzle 
of  unbearable  white  brilliance,  the  dark  bare  lowlands  bil 
lowed  and  heaved,  the  Witch  Hills  rose  and  took  shape,  waver 
ing,  fantastic,  wonderful:  the  locust  shrilled  across  the  silent 
noon. 


PURSUIT   OF   HAPPINESS        103 

Lonely,  desolate,  forlorn?  Not  to  him.  He  dwelt  in  the 
glowing  heart  of  life,  an  uproarious  Valhalla,  where  each  day 
a  man  might  do  greatly:  his  heart  laughed,  the  blood  pounded 
lustily  in  his  ears,  his  eyes  took  hold  on  all  delight. 

To  his  thought  he  rode  the  crowded  lists  of  joy  with  all 
his  thronging  peers,  young  gods  in  a  young  world,  where  they 
made  sport  with  nimble  life.  No  poor,  penny  world,  theirs, 
but  an  endless  and  enthralling  book,  the  very  footnotes  of  it 
tingling  with  delight:  a  blue  and  gold  world,  radiant  with 
mountain  and  dune  and  plain,  the  deep-lit  glowing  stars, 
freshness  of  tender  dawns  and  thrilling  dusks,  long,  cool 
shadows  at  nightfall,  brooding  noons  and  wide,  clean  skies, 
the  great  free  winds  and  the  strong  white  sun,  the  silences, 
the  wastrel  echoes  of  the  hills,  the  tense  passion  of  the  mock 
ing  bird's  call  that  woke  them  in  the  Blue  Bedroom  to  see 
the  morning  made. 

He  was  a  little  proud  of  it,  that  Universe,  and  it  caused 
him  no  anxiety.  He  felt  that  it  was  a  Universe  made  On 
Purpose,  not  a  forgotten  blunder;  felt  unshrinkingly  sure  that 
He  purposed  good  and  not  evil,  Who  loved  all  these  things 
well  enough  to  make  them  beautiful.  The  phrase  Emil  used 
to  voice  this  feeling  may  sound  profane,  but  it  was  not  such 
by  intention.  When  he  remarked  gravely,  "God  was  surely 
onto  His  job,"  he  meant  nothing  but  simple  admiration  and 
gratitude. — Day  after  day  taught  him  this  wisdom:  night 
after  night  whispered  this  counsel. 

The  Witch  Hills  of  the  mirage  swirled  and  quivered  before 
him  as  he  rode,  thankful  for  their  beauty  with  all  the  rest; 
thankful  most  of  all  for  the  crowning  wonder  and  delight, 
which,  like  the  clustered  worlds  that  neighbored  him,  like  all 
the  hourly  miracles  that  jostled  him,  was  wrought  of  mist  and 
dust  and  water  and  fire;  the  grey-eyed  maid  whose  face  was 
the  end  of  his  road,  of  all  his  roads. 

"It  will  be  right  lonesome  for  you,  come  round-up  time," 
suggested  Emil. 

Bennie  May  laughed.  "Lonesome  ?  I  don't  know  what  the 
word  means.  I'm  fixing  to  raise  a  big  garden,  now  that  we 
have  water  enough  to  irrigate.  That  is,  I  will  if  Joe  ever 
gets  the  fence  built.  That  will  keep  me  busy." 


104  WEST    IS    WEST 

"You  have  a  flower  garden,  too?  I  hope,"  said  Emil,  "that 
you  are  not  growing  effeminate." 

"I'm  afraid  so.  I  was  boyish,  rather,  wasn't  I?  A  tom 
boy?" 

"A  Bennie-boy.  Not  quite  like  any  one  else  that  ever  was," 
said  Emil,  explicitly. 

"Besides,"  said  Bennie  May,  quickly,  "Kitty  Barstow  is 
•coming  over  for  a  long  visit.  Perhaps  Erne  Rowland,  with 
the  marvelous  baby,  will  come,  too.  Aunt  Jen  wrote  to  in 
vite  her  last  week.  Of  course  we  haven't  had  time  for  an 
.answer  yet,  but  I'm  pretty  certain  she'll  come." 

"Let  me  see!"  said  Emil  reflectively,  "you're  known  me 
quite  some  time,  haven't  you?" 

"Four  years,"  said  Bennie  May. 

"And  I've  never  offered  you  any  advice?" 

"Never." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Emil,  "I  will.  You  tell  me  your  dad 
and  Webb  are  boring  a  well  half  way  between  here  and 
Barnaby  Bright:  and  you  all  but  said  that  you  hoped  they 
wouldn't  find  any  water  in  it." 

"Now,  Emil,  I  didn't  say  anything  that  could  be  twisted 
to  sucli  a  meaning." 

Emil  waved  the  protest  aside.  "No  matter.  Such  is  your 
half-hope — no  es  verdad?" 

Bennie  May  Morgan's  clear  grey  eyes  met  the  visiting  blue 
eyes  for  communion  more  swift  than  speech:  it  was  her  way 
to  meet  perplexity  squarely. 

"I  don't  know  how  you  guess  it;  but  it  is  the  truth." 

"It  is  no  guess.  I  have  the  greatest  respect  and  liking  for 
your  esteemed  parent.  But  neither  affection  nor  foresight 
blind  me  to  the  fact  that  he  is  a  metallic  old  man,  with  one 
steel  foot  and  one  cast-iron  head.  Without  intending  any 
thing  of  the  sort,  he  is  the  easiest  man  in  the  world  to  get 
along  with.  Just  let  me  have  his  own  way  about  everything 
and  there  was  never  a  better  neighbor.  And  if  not,  not." 

"You  are  a  severe  judge,  Emil." 

Emil  shook  his  head.  "Far  be  it  from  me  to  contra-say — 
Ibut  severe  judge  is  not  the  word  at  all.  Accurate  observer — 
impartial  and  incorruptible  Emil — that's  me.  And  you're 
afraid  the  new  well  may  start  new  trouble  by  bringing  on  a 
collision  with  the  Fuentes  clan?" 


PURSUIT   OF   HAPPINESS        105 

"That's  just  it.  There's  a  big  strip  of  No  Man's  Land 
between  us  now,  and  I  wish  it  could  stay  that  way." 

"Well/*  said  Emil,  "it  won't.  They'll  get  water.  I've 
studied  that  country;  before  ever  so  many  years  there's  go 
ing  to  be  so  much  water  found  along  under  Red  Mest — ar- 
tesian  wells,  I  shouldn't  wonder — that  the  whole  country  will 
be  spoiled  for  stock-raising.  You'll  see!  But  in  the  mean 
time,  Webb  and  Steelfoot  Morgan  get  water;  they  stock  up 
with  cattle.  Their  stuff  wanders  all  over  the  Fuentes  range, 
while  the  Fuentes  stock  stay  at  home,  and  the  Fuentes  grass 
gets  heap  short.  There's  your  trouble.  Old  Don  Timoteo 
is  proud  as  Lucifer,  and  he  has  a  clear  case  of  here  first. 
I  couldn't  very  well  say  to  you  that  Steelfoot  Morgan  is  an 
arbitrary,  stiff-necked  and  overbearing  old  gentleman.  But 
that  is  precisely  the  kind  of  an  old  gentleman  Timoteo 
Fuentes  is,  and  I  can  say  that  if  ever  there  was  a  well- 
matched  pair  on  earth,  Don  Timoteo  and  Steelfoot  Morgan 
are  that  couple." 

"Yon  don't  say  anything  about  Webb?" 

"No,"  said  Emil,  "I  don't.     It  isn't  being  done  this  year." 

Bennie  sighed.  "I  will,  then.  He  eggs  father  on — or 
rather,  they  egg  each  other  on.  I  declare,  father  ought  to 
have  been  lord  of  some  island,  undisputed  owner  of  every 
inch  to  the  water's  edge.  He  would  be  the  kindest  man  and 
chieftain  alive.  And  Jim  Webb  is  just  as  bad.  I  don't  see 
how  he  and  father  ever  managed  to  get  along  together  all 
these  years." 

"Well,  then, — everyone  else  sees."  A  cloud  came  over 
Emil's  sunny  eyes:  rarest  occurrence.  Bennie  smiled  faintly 
and  shook  her  head,  ever  so  slightly,  in  reproof — not  of  Emil,, 
but  of  that  unaccustomed  cloud:  which  vanished  obediently. 

The  story  must  obtrude  a  word.  When  a  girl  is  so  far 
forward  in  a  man's  thoughts  that  glance  or  gesture  answers 
his  unvoiced  thought  more  clearly  than  any  spoken  word  can 
ever  do — then  that  girl  is  none  so  unyielding  as  Bennie  May 
fancied  she  was  toward  Emil.  The  story  has  used  the  wrong 
word.  Bennie  May  was  girl  no  longer,  but  woman-grown; 
twenty-three  now,  and  taught  by  sorrow.  It  was  five  years 
since  the  year  of  the  great  rains. 

Bennie's  thoughts  trailed  away:  she  roused  herself  with  a 


106  WEST    IS    WEST 

start  and  in  some  confusion.  "You  were  mentioning  advice?" 
she  said,  sweetly. 

"So  good  of  me,  wasn't  it?"  said  Emil.  His  eye  rested  on 
a  little  blue  flower  which  Bennie  wore  on  her  bosom.  He  knew 
that  blue  blossom  as  one  of  the  flowers  of  that  year  of  the 
great  rains ;  knew  that  since  that  memorable  year  Bennie  had 
kept  a  little  watered  garden  of  those  nameless  flowers.  "Dis 
interested,  too.  Here  is  my  advice.  Ask  little  Helen  Fuentes 
to  visit  you  here  and  to  meet  your  friends  when  they  come:  ask 
Don  Timoteo  with  her:  make  your  father  stay  at  home.  They 
are  two  stubborn  old  men,  but  two  pairs  of  bright  eyes  may 
turn  the  trick:  their  old  hearts  are  soft  enough,  even  if  their 
old  heads  are  hard.  If  their  womankind  are  friendly,  it  will 
come  nearer  holding  them  back  from  foolishness  than  any 
thing  else.  You'll  like  little  Helen  too:  she's  a  nice  kid." 

"I'll  do  it,"  said  Bennie.  "You  wear  well,  Emil;  you  have 
a  reserve  of  unsuspected  and  surprising  qualities.  Who  would 
have  suspected  you  of  diplomacy?" 

"My  dear,  I  am  all  diplomacy.  You  are  unappreciative. 
Haven't  I  had  a  plausible  reason  for  every  visit  I  have  ever 
made  to  your  extremely  perambulatory  home,  or  homes?" 

"This  is  a  beautiful  place — I  hope  it  will  be  my  last  home." 
said  Bennie,  wistfully. 

"I  don't,"  said  Emil,  with  emphasis.  "That  reminds  me — 
I  haven't  decided  on  my  reason  for  this  trip  yet.  Must  be 
getting  that  all  arranged  before  the  men-folks  ride  in.  Who 
all  is  here  now,  Bennie?" 

"Only  a  few — father,  Joe  and  Harry,  and  Carl  Middaugh. 
Tank  and  the  other  boys  are  at  the  new  well." 

"I'm  sorry  about  Henry,  too,"  said  Emil,  cheerfully.  "Joe 
is  so  much  taken  up  with  his  bronco-twistin'  that  he  doesn't 
notice  anything  else — but  that  youngest  brother  of  yours  is 
highly  intelligent.  That  statement  goes  double  for  Jim  Webb, 
too." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't,  Emil!" 

"My  coarse  and  cheerful  character,"  said  Emil,  "is  hereby 
repressed  in  disgrace:  I  make  haste  to  change  the  subject, 
with  my  customary  graceful  ease,  by  remarking — ah!  uh!  er! 
oh,  yes !  listen ! — It  is  well  worth  your  while  to  establish 
social  relations  with  little  Helen  and  her  interesting  grand- 


PURSUIT   OF   HAPPINESS        107 

parent.  You  spoke  of  your  father  as  the  ideal  chieftain. 
There  is  the  great  danger:  Don  Timoteo  is  a  chieftain  right 
out  of  the  middle  ages:  all  the  young  men  of  fuentes  are 
lifted  up  with  legendary  exploits  of  their  ancestors.  The 
Scotch  loons  are  as  bad  or  worse  than  the  Spanish  Cavaliers, 
all  except  Billy  Murray  and  maybe  Hank  Mar:  they  have 
lucid  intervals." 

"I  have  heard  of  their  democratic  leanings,"  said  Bennie. 
"Railroad  men,  aren't  they?" 

"Henry  Mar  is:  Billy's  girl  is  a  miner.  Leastways  old 
Tom  Quinn  is  a  miner.  Little  Katie,  she  is  in  El  Paso  now. 
To  resume  where  you  so  rudely  interrupted:  these  high- 
spirited  young  laddie-bucks  are  not  afraid  of  anything  on 
earth;  quite  sadly  otherwise.  They've  been  brought  up  on 
those  old  stories:  their  everyday  talk  is  couched  in  the  high- 
sounding  imagery  of  war;  they're  eaten  up  with  the  crazy 
idea  that  fighting  is  the  only  way  to  prove  manhood.  Young 
Tim  and  little  Charlie  Stewart  are  the  worst  bitten:  I  believe 
they  will  be  greatly  disappointed  if  the  Morgans  don't  crowd 
them.  They  look  forward  with  great  joy  to  the  chance  of  a 
nice  little  war.  Clan  jealousy,  that's  the  danger:  the  fame  of 
the  Morgan  clan  makes  them  ashamed  of  being  peaceable  folk 
— little  idiots ! — Understand  me  well,  young  lady.  You  are  to 
confine  your  social  amenities  to  little  Helen  and  cousin  Alice 
and  Don  Timoteo.  Young  Tim  is  not  to  be  tolerated  under 
any  circumstances,  nor  Charlie  Stewart.  That  is  final." 

"Me  lud,  it  shall  be  done,"  said  Bennie  May.  "Having 
now  made  an  end  of  my  affairs,  let  us  at  this  late  last  go  on 
to  yours.  What  have  you  been  doing  with,  by,  and  for  your 
self?  A  fine  hostess  I  am  not  to  have  asked  you  before. 
You  will  be  thinking  me  a  very  selfish  person." 

"The  last  time  I  told  you  what  I  thought  of  you,"  said 
Emil  slowly,  "you  were  not  pleased.  I  therefore  beg  to  be 
excused.  You  know,  anyway. — Dear  Madam:  Answering  your 
esteemed  question  of  even  date;  what  have  I  been  doing  by 
myself? — Beg  to  reply:  I  have  been  very  busy." 

"Busy?"  scoffed  Bennie.  "I  see  you  being  busy.  And  at 
what,  pray?" 

"I  have  been  very  busy,"  repeated  Emil  firmly,  "not  mak 
ing  rules  for  God;  not  pulling  off  desperate  coups  and  shady, 


108  WEST    IS    WEST 

hair-trigger  intrigues  for  His  advantage :  not  dealing  'em  from 
the  bottom  for  Him.  Then  it  uses  up  so  much  of  my  energy 
not  running  about  re-arranging  other  people's  minds  for  them, 
making  them  Just  like  Me.  And  one  other  thing  takes  up 
my  time  a  good  deal,  too. — There !  Just  as  I  thought !  Yon 
der  comes  your  dad  and  your  brothers,  and  me  with  my  mind 
not  yet  made  up  as  to  why  I  came.  Go  'way!  You  distract 
my  attention  so  I  can't  decide  on  my  story.  Go  help  your 
aunt  Jen!" 

"But  what  was  the  other  thing?"  asked  Bennie,  rising. 

Emil  rose  and  faced  her:  he  took  her  hands.  "I  have  been 
watching  the  Witch  Hills,  Bennie.  They  are  so  unreal,  so 
beautiful,  so  far  away;  they  seem  somehow  tangled  up  with 
some  far-off  wonder  and  happiness  which  might  come  into  my 
life,  some  day.  They  are  not  there,  those  mirage-hills:  but 
all  men  dream  and  say  that  they  picture  forth  nothing  which 
is  not  somewhere  real.  .  .  .  There  is  somewhere  a  home 
for  you  more  beautiful  and  dear  than  Mockingbird,  Ben 
nie.  ...  If  you  should  ever  meet  me  in  the  Witch  Hills, 
we  might  find  that  place  together. — If  you  only  could,  Bennie 
May!" 

Again  the  grey  eyes  met  the  blue;  and  Bennie's  eyes — not 
unkindly,  not  untenderly — said  No. 

Now,  was  she  not  strangely  inconsistent,  Bennie  May  Mor 
gan?  Like  the  rest  of  us? — She  mourned  Clay  Mundy:  it 
was  for  memory  of  him  that  the  grey  eyes  said  No.  Emil 
knew  what  all  men  knew,  how  this  girl  had  knelt  in  Luna 
churchyard,  for  all  to  see,  and  kissed  Clay  Mundy,  dead. 
What  he  could  not  know,  what  no  man  knew,  was  that  she 
cherished  a  flower  linked  not  with  Mundy  but  with  the  mem 
ory  of  that  other  man  who  was,  presumably,  the  slayer  of 
Mundy.  Presumably;  no  man  knew  or  guessed  the  truth. 
Or,  if  there  were  three  who  guessed,  they  had  best  reasons 
for  silence.  The  man  Hamerick  had  disappeared  like  a  stone 
cast  into  the  sea.  His  two  guilty  confederates  stood  between 
suspicion  of  a  double  murder  on  the  one  hand  and  the  wrath 
of  the  Morgans  on  the  other. — And  Bennie  May  Morgan? 
Did  she  half-divine  something  which  she  would  never  suffer 
her  thought  to  shape,  to  half-shape,  and  so,  shielding,  forgive 
them  both? 


THE  SPRING  WORK 

VII 

RETURN    OF    THE    NATIVE 

THE  V  Cross  T  was  working  the  dayherd.  To-morrow  the 
strays  would  be  travelling  homeward  over  many  roads,  and 
the  steer-shipping  would  begin. 

John  Sayles  Watterson,  Jr.,  held  the  N  8  cut,  with  a  sharp 
eye  for  the  thrilling  drama  of  the  roundup,  when  the  dust 
curtain  raised  enough  for  sight.  Circling  the  helrd  were  a 
dozen  similar  "cuts,"  each  pertaining  to  a  different  brand, 
each  keeping  about  the  same  distance  from  its  neighbors  and 
from  the  main  herd.  To  them,  at  short  intervals,  cattle 
streamed  out  of  the  dust,  singly  or  by  two's  or  three's;  at 
times  a  resolute  steer  broke  for  liberty,  to  be  circled  back 
by  a  swift  horseman,  or  roped  and  towed  back,  at  need. 

Behind  was  the  infinite  expanse  of  rolling  plateau:  before 
him  John  Sayles  saw,  first  the  wagons  at  the  camp,  then  the 
white  walls  of  Ridgepole  huddled  at  the  end  of  Magdalena 
mountain;  higher,  the  mines  and  the  roofs  of  Kelly  bright 
against  the  blue  slope:  eastward  to  Lemitar  mountain,  the 
broad  mesa  plunged  reckless  down  the  valley  of  the  Rio 
Grande:  beyond  was  the  flat  sunlit  mesa  and  the  far,  dim  line 
of  Oscura. 

A  horseman  grew  from  the  dust,  and  rode  out  to  him:  but 
John  Sayles,  busy  with  his  restless  charges,  had  scant  time 
to  look  until  the  rider  was  within  hail. 

"Well  young  man,  this  is  quite  a  change  from  Baltimore 
and  Washington.  How're  you  making  it? 

"Mr.  Logan!"  John  Sayles  grasped  eagerly  at  the  older 
man's  hand.  "Let  me  thank  you  for  steering  me  up  against 
all  this.  When  did  you  come?  Today?  Gee,  I'm  glad  to 

see  you!" 

109 


110  WEST    IS   WEST 

"Oh  no,  I  came  a  week  ago,"  said  Logan.  "Been  to  San 
Clement  and  up  to  the  north  work.  I'm  on  my  way  back 
to  civilization  now.  Hope  you're  ready  to  go  with  me?" 

The  boy  drew  a  wry  face.  "Not  ready — no,  nix,  not.  Heap 
plenty  good  time.  Besides  I've  got  so  I  can  stay  on  a  bucking 
horse  every  little  while.  Learning  to  talk  conversation,  too. 
But  I've  got  to  go,  ready  or  not.  I  promised  the  mother.  So 
I'm  with  you  soon  as  I  see  these  steers  loaded.  And  the 
family  Mr.  Logan?  They  are  well,  I  trust?" 

"They  are  all  at  Colorado  Springs,  when  I  join  them  we're 
going  to  the  coast,  by  way  of  Yellowstone  Park — except 
Kinks,  who,  I  believe,  intends  to  stay  where  she  is,  per 
manently.  She  has  a  burro  as  big  as  a  black  dog,  and  intends 
to  renounce  her  other  family  ties."  Fond  pride  was  in  his 
tone:  you  would  not  guess  the  empire  builder  of  Broad  Street 
and  Pennsylvania  Avenue.  "Bob  isn't  anxious  to  leave,  either: 
he  is  second  baseman  for  the  twelve  year  kids ;  very  skeptical 
about  geysers  and  the  big  trees.  You  know — you  played  at 
Princeton,  didn't  you?" 

"Two  years,"  said  John  Sayles  proudly — wishing  that  the 
older  man  might  see  his  press  notices.  Of  course,  he  couldn't 
show  them  himself,  but  the  mater  knew  where  he  kept  them. 
Mothers  are  dense,  sometimes. 

"The  wife  sends  her  regards  and  invites  you  to  come  with 
us.  I  would  have  asked  you  myself,  but  as  you  know,  an  in 
vitation  is  not  valid  except  it  be  legibly  endorsed  by  the  wife 
or  other  head  of  the  house — among  civilized  folks,  that  is.  Of 
course,  for  out  here — Logan  waved  his  hand — "like  my  invita 
tion  to  the  ranch — that  was  different." 

"Oh,  it's  awfully  jolly  of  her  and  it  would  be  a  grand 
stunt  to  go.  But  mother  wants  me  to  come  home." 

Logan  smiled.  "We'll  wire  your  mother.  It  isn't  so  much 
that  she  wants  you  to  come  home  as  that  she  wants  to  get 
you  away  from  here.  I  happen  to  know,  for  it  was  I  who 
advised  her,  in  a  moment  of  remorse." 

"Mr.  Logan!  She  ought  to  be  jolly  well  glad  to  have  me 
here."  Here  a  dry  cow  decided  to  visit  the  herd.  When 
John  Sayles  brought  her  back  the  look  of  incredulous  protest 
was  still  frozen  on  his  face.  "Why  I've  learned  more  about — 
about  real  things,  about  being — well,  what  dad  would  have 
wanted  me  to  be — Aw,  leggo,  you're  pulling  my  leg!" 


RETURN   OF   THE    NATIVE      111 

"No,  I  mean  it.  This  is  the  pit  whence  I  was  digged — I 
know.  You're  young,  your  head  is  full  of  romantic  trash; 
you're  in  just  the  right  stage  of  development  to  pick  up  ideas 
that  will  do  you  an  irreparable  harm.  These  fellows  are 
ignorant,  uncouth,  unashamed  and  incompetent — " 

"Come,  I  say  now !  Incompetent !  By  Jove !"  John  Sayles 
fairly  exploded.  "Come  again!  The  poorest  hand  amongst 
them  is  a  miracle  of  efficiency.  There  isn't  one  of  them  but 
goes  at  the  neanest  piece  of  work  as  if  his  life  depended  on 
doing  that  one  thing  well  as  Julius  Caesar  could  do  it.  At 
least  as  well,  and  in  less  time!" 

"What  do  they  get  by  it?" 

"They  get  by  with  it !"  snapped  John  Sayles. 

"You  evade,"  said  Logan  indulgently.  "I  will  answer  then. 
Not  enough  to  buy  your  cigars." 

John  Sayles  was  silent. 

"Their  muscles  are  well  trained.  So  far  you  are  right," 
pursued  Logan.  "But  where  does  it  get  them?  They  earn 
nothing  and  they  learn  nothing.  So  far  from  using  their 
brains,  they  do  not  even  use  their  muscles  wisely.  For  no 
greater  skill,  the  ball  player  reaps  fame  and  fortune." 

"With  no  more  skill,  and  far  less  pain  and  danger,  the 
prize-fighter  wins  a  fortune,"  answered  John  Sayles, 
promptly.  "Is  he  the  better  man?  Is  money  the  only  "test?" 

"He  is  the  wiser  man,  at  least.  That  is  exactly  the  point. 
These  fellows  sacrifice  everything  else  so  they  can  go  their 
own  way  just  as  they  please  and  keep  their  so  called  'inde 
pendence' — with  no  provision  for  the  future.  They  will  not 
accept  orders " 

"I  have  been  here  two  months,  and  I  have  not  heard  an 
order  given  yet,"  said  John  Sayles  dryly.  "Every  man  knows 
what  to  do  and  when  to  do  it.  He  does  it  without  orders.  And 
every  man-jack  of  them  tries  to  do  it  first!  Is  that  a  fault? 
Why,  if  you  had  men  who  would  do  that,  you  would  hold  them 
invaluable.  And  independence?  Since  when  has  that  been 
a  crime?  Isn't  it  self-respect — even  exaggerated  self-respect 
— better  than  cringing  obsequiousness  of  our  tip-takers? 
Money  be  jiggered!"  John  Sayles  rolled  up  his  eyes  in  sud 
den  piety.  "The  Coney  Islanders  are  a  feeble  folk,  but  they 
roll  in  the  rocks !"  he  said  solemnly.  "Me,  I  like  the  wad- 
dies  better." 


112  WEST    IS    WEST 

"The  foreman,  even,  don't  get  enough  to  pay  your  monthly 
tips,  young  man.  And  they  never  will.  Look  here,  John — I 
was  one  of  these  fellows  myself:  but  with  more  brains  and 
more  ambition,  I  hope.  When  the  Mexican  Central  was  built, 
I  saw  a  chance  and  risked  everything  on  it.  I  took  a  sub 
contract  under  Joe  Hampson.  That  was  my  start;  and  I 
never  took  a  step  back.  I  tried  to  get  some  of  the  very  men 
who  are  here  to-day  to  go  in  with  me  on  that  contract.  Would 
they  do  it?  No!  They  preferred  to  gamble " 

"We  will  skip  the  gambling,"  announced  John  Sayles,  "and 
the  cow  stealing." 

"Touch" !  said  Logan  gaily.  "As  you  so  delicately  do  not 
say,  I  have  gambled  for  the  highest  stakes — and  won.  Say 
then,  that  they  were  foolish  to  gamble  and  lose.  Say,  if  you 
prefer  it,  that  they  are  foolish  to  play  fair  against  opponents 
who  do  not  play  fair.  They  are  stupid,  stubborn,  these  men. 
Magnificent  animals — no  more." 

"Is  fair  play  nothing,  then?  faithfulness?  splendid 
courage?" 

"Ah,  courage!"  said  Logan,  "There  we  have  it!  Now  we 
touch  bottom.  Yes,  they  are  brave,  fearless — idiotically  so, 
and  aimlessly  so.  For  a  whim,  a  dare  a  dollar  a  day,  to 
show  off,  to  catch  a  yearling,  for  sheer  stubbornness,  for  no 
cause  at  all,  they  risk  life  and  limb  a  dozen  times  a  day.  That 
is  what  wins  your  young  affection.  Young  man,  young  man ! 
It  is  high  time  you  came  home.  You  have  read  too  much  Sir 
Walter  Scott.  This  is  no  place  for  you.  Courage — animal 
courage — may  be  an  admirable  quality " 

"Vegetable  courage  is  a  rare  and  lovely  thing,"  said  John 
Sayles.  "Or  is  it  mineral  courage  that  you  most  admire?" 

Logan  ignored  the  interruption.  "Courage  is  doubtless  an 
admirable  quality,  but  it  is  needless  to  such  men  as  you  and 
I.  The  intelligent  civilized  man  seldom  learns  either  that  he 
has  courage  or  that  he  lacks  it.  We  use  foresight  and  judg 
ment  instead.  We  pay  our  soldiers  to  do  our  fighting  for  us  ; 
we  pay  the  hewers  of  wood  to  take  our  risks — sand-hogs, 
bridge  builders,  railroaders,  cowboys,  miners,  the  thousand 
others.  We  profit  by  tunnel  and  bridge,  railroad  and  mine 
and  beef,  but  we  let  these  excellent,  admirable  and  blind 
savages  do  the  work  and  take  the  risks." 


RETURN   OF   THE    NATIVE      113 

"I  do  not  like  you  much,"  remarked  John  Sayles  Watterson, 
Jr. 

Logan's  jolly  laugh  rang  out.  He  was  quite  unoffended* 
"How  independence  corrupts  good  manners,  John!  I  put  it 
crudely  by  way  of  putting  it  forcibly — to  offset  the  crude 
ideas  you  have  adopted  here.  You  think  it  out  at  your 
leisure." 

"I  cannot  talk  as  well  as  you  do,  Mr.  Logan.  But  I  am 
sure  you  are  wrong." 

"  'Me  hear-rt  rejects  your  evil  counsel'  " — as  they  say  in  the 
second  act."  Logan  laughed  again.  "You  remind  me  of  poor 
Cullom.  Graduate  of  Middleton,  our  best  engineering  school 
— brilliant  man — one  of  the  best  positions  in  the  gift  of  the 
I.  C.  C.  for  a  starter.  And  over  on  the  East  Side,  a  gutter- 
brat  got  in  the  way  of  an  automobile.  Cullom  jumped  to  the 
rescue.  Result,  one  guttersnipe  saved  for  crime  or  misery  or 
both;  one  first  class  man  crippled  for  life." 

"It  seems  tough,  at  that.  But  suppose  that  child  had  been 
Kinks  ?  I  make  the  suggestion  with  diffidence,  because  of  the 
term  gutter-brat.  It  was  your  word  and  not  mine:  which 
cheerful  thought  emboldens  me  to  mention  Kinks.  And  par 
ents  of  gutter-brats  have  words  of  their  own  to  describe  such 
fortunate  children  as  Kinks — words  quite  as  ugly  and  sense 
less  as  gutter-brat.  So  I  proceed.  Suppose  that  inconsiderate 
child  had  been  Kinks?" 

Logan  frowned.  "It  could  not  have  been  Kinks.  Kinks 
is  watched  and  guarded  every  hour  of  her  life." 

"Yet  that  child  was  Kinks  or  Bob  to  someone,"  insisted  John 
Sayles. 

Logan  waved  the  motion  aside  with  an  angry  hand.  Non 
sense!  "Those  people  are  mere  two-legged  animals.  John 
Sayles,  John  Sayles!  Men  like  you  and  Cullom  are  not  free 
to  choose.  You  are  reared  to  be  leaders  of  men.  Years  of 
toil  and  care  are  lavished  on  your  training — you  have 
absolutely  no  right  to  even  yourselves  with  the  scum  and  off 
scourings  of  the  earth.  You  are  like  the  Man  with  Ten 
Talents ;  much  shall  be  required  of  you.  If  Cullom  had  been 
married  and  had  children — even  then,  you  would  think  it  was 
his  duty  to  fling  away  his  life  for  a  notion,  I  suppose?" 

"Mr.   Logan,  you  can  out-talk  me.      I   shall   fall  back  on 


114  WEST    IS    WEST 

quotation.  It  was  Brann  of  Waco  who  said  this  word  con 
cerning  children,  and  I  think  it  covers  the  case: — 'Better  to 
die  in  the  faith  that  they  were  sired  by  freeman,  than  to  live 
in  the  hateful  knowledge  that  they  were  spawned  by  slaves/ 
And  these  men  that  you  despise  are  freemen.  Thy  are  free 
to  choose:  the  choice  you  deny  to  Cullom  and  to  me." 

"Young  blood,"  said  Logan,  his  face  darkening.  "Oh,  very 
generous,  very  highminded — but  it  wont  work  out.  The 
world  today,  and  all  it  has  to  give,  is  for  enlightened  selfish 
ness — for  the  Obermann,  if  you  please.  You  will  see  differ 
ently  ten  years  from  now,  when  you  are  under  bond,  when 
you  have  given  hostages  to  fortune.  But  today  you  bear  me 
hard,  I  admit  it:  you  and  the  outworn  thought  you  speak  for." 

Katy,  Logan's  pony,  grown  gray  in  the  service,  was 
aggrieved  at  his  inglorious  station.  He  pawed  and  twisted: 
he  cocked  ear  and  eye  at  the  straining  herd  where  his  heart 
was.  Once, — oh,  long  ago  and  long  ago! — Katy  had  been  pet 
and  pride  of  the  Bar  Cross,  far  to  the  southward.  They  still 
tell  of  the  loot  which  changed  hands  on  a  wager  as  to  which 
could  soonest  cut  out  fifty  steers  of  the  same  brand,  Katy, 
or  the  Tom  Ross  Baldy  horse.  Katy  won  by  a  single  steer. 

"Here's  a  sample,  this  Katy  horse,"  said  Logan  bitterly.  "I 
ride  him  because  he  is  safe  and  sensible:  or  I  ride  other  old 
and  quiet  horses.  That  is  what  a  sensible  man  ought  to  do, 
a  man  with  a  family  to  think  of,  a  man  of  years  and  re 
sponsibility.  What  do  I  get  for  it?  Sneers  and  sidelong 
glances — ridicule  at  the  very  best!"  His  face  flamed  red:  his 
splendid  chest  heaved  with  sudden  passionate  anger.  "Wat- 
terson,  I  was  a  boy  here:  yes,  and  a  man  with  the  best  of 
them.  All  these  years,  I  have  kept  the  old  ranch  through  a 
sneaking  sentimental  affection  for  the  country  and  the  boys — 
confound  their  insolence!  But  you've  not  heard  any  heart 
felt  queries  about  me,  have  you?" 

John  Sayles  had  not,  and  he  had  wondered  at  it.  "But  no  one 
has  said  a  word  against  you,  Mr.  Logan !" 

"No!  That's  it:  they  ignore  me:  I'm  beneath  their  notice!" 
Here  N.  P.  Logan,  the  empire  builder,  permitted  himself  the 
use  of  idle  words..  "I'd  rather  they'd  abuse  me.  Listen:  I'll 
tell  you  what  they  didn't  say.  When  I  was  here  last,  four 
years  ago,  a  foolish,  worthless  ne'er-do-well,  Andy  Connor, 


RETURN   OF    THE    NATIVE      115 

half  cow-thief  and  half  desperado,  was  riding  a  wild  horse 
on  the  rim  at  Blue  Mesa.     You've  been  there?" 

John  Sayles  nodded. 

"His  horse  fell,  his  foot  hung;  they  went  over  the  edge.  I 
was  the  nearest:  and  because  I  didn't  follow  and  rope  his 
horse  on  that  slide  I  am  ostracized.  And  me  with  a  wife  and 
two  babies :  Kinks  was  not  a  year  old  then.  I  stayed  a  month 
after  that.  I  didn't  get  a  kind  word  or  a  kind  look.  Cold 
civility  from  old  friends:  slur  and  slight  from  the  rest.  Wat- 
terson,  I  had  no  right  to  go  down  that  slide!  My  family 
aside,  I  was  the  moving  spirit — yes,  I  may  say  it,  it  is  true — 
in  enterprises  wherein  the  savings  of  thousands,  the  chance  for 
work  and  the  entire  wellbeing  of  other  thousands  depended 
— which  would  collapse  without  me  like  a  card  house,  with 
ruin,  suicide,  misery  and  crime  to  mark  the  wreck. 

"There  was  more  than  even  that  to  consider.  For  Con 
nor's  own  sake,  I  had  no  right  to  go.  I  had  not  roped  for 
years,  nor  ridden  hard:  I  was  not  fit.  Connor's  horse  was 
not  at  top  speed  at  first:  the  slide  cowed  him:  he  sidled  and 
edged,  he  was  half-minded  to  climb  back  to  the  top.  Had  I 
followed  and  missed  my  throw,  Connor  would  have  been 
dragged  to  shreds.  Johnny  Dines  went.  He  was  in  practice, 
he  caught  the  horse  at  the  first  cast:  Connor  was  not  even 
badly  hurt.  And  I — I  am  an  outcast  in  the  only  land  I  really 
cared  about,  a  byword  with  the  people  I  love  best!  I'll  not 
stand  it.  I'll  never  come  back.  And,  I  tell  you  again,  after 
four  years  of  thinking  it  over — I  had  no  right  to  go  down 
that  slide." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  SHIPPING  PENS 

"One  Box  W,  three  V  Cross  T's,  Square  and  Compass,  one 
K  Y — let  'em  go!"  The  inspector's  quirt  slapped  sharply 
on  his  boot  leg;  six  steers  slid  along  the  fence  like  stealthy 
ghosts;  the  inspector's  horse  turned  back  unbidden.  These 
three  things  took  place  simultaneously.  A  fourth  was  on  their 
heels.  "Tally!"  The  word  cracked  like  a  whip.  Street  and 
Horsethief  Fisher,  tally  keepers,  snapped  it  together. 

Tails  aflaunt,  the  steers  streaked  down  the  stock-yards  lane, 
between  the  heavy  timbered  twelve- foot  fence;  they  flipped 
round  a  corner  with  a  kick;  a  heavy  gate  closed  behind  them; 
a  rider  started  from  ambush  and  choused  them  on  to  the  wait 
ing-pens. 

The  inspector  paced  soberly  back  with  Cole  Ralston,  the 
V  Cross  T  boss,  who  "pushed  'em  through."  Near  the  gate, 
they  croweded  the  inner  fence,  under  the  dangling  feet  of 
spectators  and  amateur  tally-keepers.  A  bunch  broke  from 
the  pen,  shied,  kicked  and  scurried  down  the  lane,  two  abreast, 
dust-hidden.  The  inspector  did  not  move. 

"One  S  S  Bar,  one  H  A  M,  one  Hook-and-Ladder,  one  N 
8,  two  V  Cross  TV'— "Tally." 

A  horse  slipped  on  his  side  in  the  cutting  pen,  and  rose, 
bucking:  the  herd  charged  for  the  open  gate  of  the  lane. 
Emil  James  and  "Dallas"  McCombs  thrust  their  horses  into 
the  living  flood  and  it  swirled  back  for  some  magic  of  word 
and  waving  hats.  The  leaders  crushed  down  the  lane:  Rals 
ton  "strung  'em  out,"  so  they  dribbled  by  in  a  charging  column 
rather  than  as  a  locked  phalanx.  The  inspector  raced  beside 
them,  barking  crisp  italics. 

"H  G  T,  two  V  Cross  T,  two  Double  Ess  Barr,  SLY, 
four  V  Cross  T,  N  8,  K  Y,  Half  Circle  Cross,  76,  NUN, 

116 


•     THE    SHIPPING   PENS  117 

V  Cross  T,  one  Spur— let  'em  go!     MO-ORE  STRAW!" 

"Tally!" 

John  Sayles  gasped.  With  all  his  eyes  he  had  caught  but 
one  brand  as  this  wild  mob  thundered  by — the  familiar  N  8. 
That  was  on  a  steer  he  knew  by  flesh  marks:  he  was  hardly 
sure  if  he  had  indeed  seen  the  brand,  or  merely  thought  so  be 
cause  he  knew  it  was  there.  It  was  no  new  thing  for  John 
Sayles  to  wonder:  he  had  found  more  bewildering  cause  in 
two  New  Mexican  months  than  in  his  previous  two  and  twenty 
years. 

This  last  stage  of  the  cow-work,  like  all  the  preceding 
phases,  was  a  revelation  of  concentration,  snap,  and  marvel 
lous  efficiency.  To  John  Sayles  the  wonder  was  less  that  the 
inspector  had  not  yet  read  one  brand  wrong  than  that  he 
had  ever  read  one  right. 

More  straw  came.  "Two  V  Cross  T's,  one  Pig-Pen,, 
S  U  M,  one  Spur— Hold  'em!  Hold  'em  up!"  The 
gate  crashed  quivering  against  the  timbers.  "Let  'em  in  the 
water-pen.  Gip,  you  and  Spike  climb  down  off  that  fence 
and  get  your  horses.  Throw  that  pieded  steer  and  see  if  the 
brand  hasn't  been  burned  from  H  O  T  to  B  O  B.  Saunders ! 
— you,  Bill  Saunders!" 

"Present!" 

"Where's  that  BOB  man,  d'yuh  know?" 

"Over  to  th'  saloon,  I  reckon.  Him  and  old  man  Gibson 
are  hitting  up  the  booze." 

"Go  get  him.   All  ri-ight!   Let  'em  come!" 

A  head  and  shoulders,  belonging  to  Al  Clemens  appeared 
above  the  outer  fence.  "Hi,  there,  one  of  you  huskies !  Help, 
I  need  it!" 

"Here  I  am!"  said  John  Sayles,  and  walked  the  plank 
which  topped  the  fence,  stepping  over  and  around  and  on 
to  the  audience.  A  fresh  bunch  of  steers  stormed  by  to  the 
"ante-rooms".  As  the  gate  swung  shut  John  Sayles  made  it 
a  bridge  to  the  outer  world  and  so  became  aware  that  the  gate 
keeper  was  using  expressions. 

"What's  wrong  with  the  world,  Tom-Dick-Bob?"  inquired 
John  Sayles.  The  gate  tender  was  youngest  hand  of  the  N  8, 
hence  detailed  to  the  ignominy  of  this  dull  and  dusty  duty. 

"Wrong?  Wrong!    This  gate"— he  described  the  gate — "is 


118  WEST    IS    WEST 

sagged  so  the  bolt  wont  catch.  That  section  foreman — "  he 
described  the  section  foreman — "oughta  bored  another  hole. 
Directly  a  car  load  of  steers'll  surge  up  against  it — and  the 
boy,  oh  where  was  he?  I'll  get  so  complicated  with  that 
fence  you'll  have  to  scrape  me  off  with  a  plane." 

John  Sayles  dropped  into  the  outer  sand  and  raced  after 
Clemens.  "What's  the  matter  over  in  Macedonia,  Al?" 

Al  pointed.  "See  the  big  red  sign  on  the  far  car,  alone, 
down  at  the  end  of  the  side  track?  That  says  Dynamite, 
Danger,  mucho  cuidado!  The  boys  keep  rolling  cars  down 
that  nice  little  slope  as  they're  loaded,  and  pretty  soon  they're 
going  to  bunt  into  that  giant-powder-good-by !  I  set  the 
brakes  on  that  flock  of  cars  as  tight  as  I  could  do  it  alone,  but 
every  fresh  car  jolts  'em  a  little  further.  We'll  get  a  hand 
spike  and  all  both  screw  up  those  brakes  till  the  wheels 
think  they're  chained  to  the  rail." 

"I  see !"  said  John  Sayles.  "You  don't  want  the  dynamite 
to  explode — is  that  it?" 

"That  is  the  general  idea,  yes,"  admitted  Al,  with  an  admir 
ing  glance.  "You're  some  quick  in  the  head.  By  all  good 
rights  they  should  have  left  that  car  on  another  track,  out  of 
the  way  of  the  cattle  cars.  'Spose  some  fool  kid  monkeyed 
with  that  brake?  That  car  would  ride  that  split  switch,  take 
the  main  line,  and  meet  the  Elevator  coming  up  and  bust  her 
headlight.  They  never  ought  to  have  anything  but  a  stub 
switch  in  such  a  yard  as  this,  anyway.  This  kind  is  a  plain 
invitation  for  cars  to  get  out  of  the  siding." 

When  he  came  back,  John  Sayles  climbed  to  the  platform 
of  the  loading  chutes.  A  car  was  spotted,  bridge  and  wings 
dropped  to  place.  "Right!"  shouted  Slim  and  Slick  in 
chorus.  The  loading  pen  gate  swung  open,  two  wild  riders 
harried  a  bunch  down  the  lane.  The  steers  wheeled  madly 
into  the  loading  pen ;  followed  relentlessly,  they  dashed  up  the 
steep  chute  to  escape — into  the  car.  The  riders  tip-toed 
sedately  back  for  more.  Sometimes  the  steers  broke  back  at 
the  chute.  But  every  gate  had  a  keeper:  and  a  gate-keeper's 
husiness  was  to  be  quicker  than  a  steer.  With  two  horsemen 
and  a  half  dozen  frantic  steers  in  a  loading  pen  little  larger 
than  a  box  car,  John  Sayles  expected  tragedy. 

But  horse   and  man  knew  their   business.      Dust,  broken 


THE    SHIPPING   PENS  119 

glimpses  of  white  horns,  plunged  and  dart  and  feint  and  twist, 
a  bellow  of  rage,  a  shout,  a  sharp  crack  of  quirt  on  "chaps," 
long  tapideros  slapped  on  charging  heads,  parry  of  booted 
foot  at  last  need — Ey-ah!  The  last  steers  dashed  up  the 
chute.  Where  a  second  ago  was  mortal  combat,  two  horses 
turned  automatically  to  an  automatically  opening  gate,  two 
unmoved  riders  resumed  a  low-voiced  conversation  as  they 
paced  quietly  along  the  lane. 

"Hear  Nate  Logan's  back  again." 

"Yes.    Ain't  you  seen  him?    He's  been  here  quite  a  spell?" 

"Nope.     I  been  representing.     Got  in  last  night." 

"He  resembles  himself  a  heap." 

"Oh,  well,  you  needn't  be  abusive."  Further  reproof  faded 
to  indistinct  murmur. 

The  last  speaker  was  Mr.  Steve  Thompson,  "Wildcat" 
Thompson  of  campfire  tales ;  and  John  Sayles  quoted  happily 
to  himself: 

"He  was  a  most  sarcastic  man,  this  quiet  Mr.  'Brown, 
And  on  several  occasions  he  had  cleaned  out  the  town." 

Sometimes,  however,  the  steers  would  stubbornly  refuse  to 
enter  the  narrow  chute  for  any  equestrian  inducements.  Then 
the  horsemen  escaped  miraculously  through  the  gate:  Slim 
and  Slick,  with  a  volunteer  appanage  of  ambitious  Ridgepole 
youth,  dropped  into  the  pen  afoot  and  "fought  'em  in"  with 
prod-poles.  It  was  more  exciting  than  the  preferred  method, 
but  really  safer,  for  in  extremity  a  man  could  climb  the 
fence  to  safety.  For  cow-ponies  can  do  this.  But  loading 
"by  hand"  was  slower  and  used  only  as  a  last  resort. 

In  the  cutting  pen  the  steer  supply  ran  low.  John  Saves 
walked  the  fence  to  the  enthralling  sport  of  watching  the 
inspector  read  brands  ere  it  was  evermore  too  late. 

A  gusty  puff  of  wind  swooped  his  hat  into  the  lower  lane ; 
a  twenty  ton  missile  of  panic-stricken  beef  crashed  against 
the  gate.  Tom-Dick-Bob  was  a  grand  little  man,  but  he  did 
not  weigh  twenty  tons :  the  gate  opened  suddenly.  Tom-Dick- 
Bob  was  not  caught.  Clear  of  the  gate  and  cattle,  he  hung 
along  the  wall,  making  futile  remarks.  How  he  got  there  is 
not  known.  The  cattle  surged  on  blindly,  overthrew  the  in* 


120  WEST    IS   .WEST 

spector,  swept  over  him:  the  cutting-pen  gate  swung  shut; 
they  raced  on  and  smashed  to  a  halt  against  the  outer  gates, 
double  and  chained. 

Inspector  and  horse  scrambled  up  unhurt.  From  the  fence 
top,  Logan  spoke  to  Tom-Dick-Bob  on  the  fence  side. 

"Riley,  if  you  can't  do  the  work,  I'll  send  some  one  down 
that  can." 

For  a  breath  Tom-Dick-Bob  hung  open-mouthed  on  the 
fence,  dazed  by  his  wrongs.  He  dropped  down,  closed  the 
gate  and  found  speech  to  declare  himself. 

"You  yellow  dog — "  the  words  came  slow  and  clear — "I'll 
hold  this  gate  till  the  last  steer  goes.  And  you  don't  fire  me. 
I  won't  be  fired.  I  work  for  you  one  year  from  to-day,  Nate 
Logan — and  I  draw  my  pay.  No  crawling  thing  like  you  can 
run  it  over  me  for  not  being  able  to  out-push  a  carload  of 
steers.  Now  you  go  to  the  hotel  and  stay  there !" 

In  a  dead  silence  Logan  looked  down  at  his  wrathful  em 
ployee,  turned  and  left  the  stock  yards.  No  man  looked  after 
him. 

"Let  'em  come !"  said  the  inspector. 


CHAPTER    IX 


RIDGEPOLE  BRANCH  appears  on  the  map  as  a  straight  spur, 
sticking  out  from  the  El  Paso  line  like  a  sore  thumb.  This 
is  an  understatement. 

Ridgepole  is  indeed  the  western  and  heavenward  end  of 
the  line,  and  Saragossa  is  at  the  other  end.  But  it  is  not  a 
straight  line. 

The  narrow-gauge  between  Clifton  and  Metcalf,  in  Arizona, 
is  the  longest  line  between  two  given  points.  Thirty-five  miles 
of  track  make  ten  miles  actual  distance:  and  a  slight  rise. 
Ridgepole  spur  is  comparatively  straightforward.  It  requires 
only  thirty-one  miles  (or  twenty-seven)  to  accomplish  six 
teen  miles  of  westing.  Because  of  the  curves,  one  rail  is 
shorter  than  the  other:  the  twenty-seven-mile  side. 

Lay  a  piece  of  paper  on  a  common  washboard:  give  your 
neighbor's  six-year-old  a  pencil  held  in  a  pair  of  tongs:  ask 
him  to  shut  his  eyes  and  draw  a  very  long  capital  S  on  the 
paper.  Turn  the  paper  with  the  pencilled  mark  from  you  and 
hold  it  to  the  light.  What  you  will  see  will  be  a  fairly  accu 
rate  map  of  the  Ridgepole  road. 

It  is  steep,  too — Ridgepole  Branch.  It  is  said  that  when 
the  road  was  first  opened  a  light  engine  could  not  get  up  the 
hill  without  a  pusher.  This  is  not  verified. 

Four  per  cent,  is  generally  reckoned  a  stiff  grade.  Ridge 
pole  percentages  fluctuate  from  usury  to  confiscation,  consist 
ent  only  in  this,  that  there  is  some  rise  for  every  rail  from 
the  main-line  frog  at  Saragossa  to  the  final  spike  at  Kelly. 
There  is  a  five-mile  switch-back  from  Ridgepole  to  Kelly  smel 
ter  so  steep  that  the  engine  only  takes  up  one  car  every  two 
trips. 

There  is  one  mixed  train — "The  Elevator.*"  It  makes  the 

121 


122  WEST    IS    WEST 

round  trip  once  daily,  oftener  if  required.  On  rare  occasions 
another  engine  comes  up  from  San  Marcial  to  help  with  stock 
shipments.  Exports  are  cattle,  sheep,  wool,  hides,  horses  and 
ore;  imports,  food,  playing  cards  and  school  ma'ams. 

Near  the  track,  at  Five-Mile  Cut,  rode  the  V  Cross  T  men 
and  a  few  other  men  from  the  high  country;  the  skeleton  of 
the  round-up  crew.  New  flesh  for  those  bones,  in  the  shape 
of  other  "stray  men,"  would  appear  when  the  work  started 
again  on  the  river.  And  when  the  river  was  worked — a  mere 
strip  some  ninety  miles  by  twenty — the  spring  rodeo  would 
break  up.  Cattle  are  not  worked  in  the  hot-weather  months. 

It  was  late  afternoon.  The  steers  were  loaded  ready  for 
the  Elevator  to  drop  them  down  to  the  main  line:  but  the  Ele 
vator  was  late.  The  wagon  had  long  since  gone  to  Water 
Caiion  with  the  horse  herd:  some  of  the  boys  were  staying  in 
Ridgepole  for  the  night;  the  rest  rode  slowly  down  the  trail 
which  cuts  across  the  long  curves  of  the  railway  like  the  bars 
on  the  dollar  mark  "S." 

Logan  and  John  Sayles  rode  a  hundred  yards  in  advance. 
They  threaded  the  huddle  of  hills  below  town  and  came  out 
on  a  tip-tilted  world  where  the  uplands  began  the  roaring 
plunge  to  the  river.  It  is  not  absolutely  claimed  that  South 
America  once  slid  away  from  that  wild  moraine:  but,  had  it 
happened,  the  scarred  and  gullied  track  would  have  been  not 
otherwise;  bare,  desolate  and  glaring,  heaped  with  gray  boul 
ders,  studded  with  stubborn,  earthless  and  glassy  hill. 

For  a  space  the  trail  paralleled  the  railroad  track  as  it 
came  back  from  a  little  exploring  trip  to  the  north  and  gath 
ered  breath  for  the  Toboggan.  Thus  far  from  Ridgepole  the 
track  sloped  gently ;  the  detour,  almost  on  a  level,  was  to  avoid 
the  stripling  hills  between:  the  jump-off  began  just  ahead,  with 
a  horseshoe  curve  to  the  left  as  preliminary.  Far  away  and 
far  below  the  Elevator  came  in  sight,  crawling  from  the  white 
cut  above  Water  Canon. 

"It  is  on  a  par  with  the  rest,"  said  Logan.  "Because  I  act 
like  a  reasonable  man,  I  am  treated  like  a  leper.  By  their 
senseless,  topsy-turvy,  neck-or-nothing  code,  I  should  have 
gone  to  a  finish  fight  with  young  Riley.  It  makes  no  differ 
ence  that  I  am  forty  pounds  heavier,  that  I  could  break  him 
in  two,  that  Riley  knows  it,  that  they  know  it,  that  they  know 
I  know." 


ABOVE  WISDOM  AND  SUBTLETY     123 

In  the  heat,  a  shrill  cicada  jarred  on  his  raw  nerves:  he 
fell  silent.  After  a  little  he  spoke  again. 

"As  it  happens,  I  was  wrong;  the  bolts  on  the  gate  would 
not  work.  But  that  does  not  count  one  feather's  weight  with 
my  valorous  judges.  If  Riley  had  been  wrong,  'twould  be 
just  the  same.  To  use  their  own  phrase,  unless  a  man  will 
go  through  with  whatever  be  begins  'to  the  last  ditch  and  then 
some,'  he's  no  good.  Nothing  else  counts.  He  must  be  ready 
to  fight  for  every  reason  or  no  reason — for  a  foolish  cause  or 
a  bad  one."  He  laughed  bitterly.  "To  be  just,  it  is  not  need 
ful  to  win.  They  think  just  as  well  of  you  if  you  are  licked 
or  killed — just  so  you  demonstrate  that  you  have  more  pluck 
than  brains.  It's  intolerable.  They're  savages.  They  make 
a  fetish  of  low  brute  courage:  they  drag  out  a  poor,  second- 
rate  virtue  and  make  it  supersede  a  hundred  better  qualities. 
But  of  course  you  side  in  with  them." 

John  Sayles  was  sore  distressed.  "I  see  your  point  of  view, 
Mr.  Logan,  and  I  can  understand  why  you're  sore.  But  I 
don't  think  they're  savages,  and  I  don't  think  they're  alto 
gether  wrong.  We  can't  afford  to  despise  this  'brute  courage,' 
as  you  call  it.  It  may  not  be  the  highest  quality,  but  it  is 
the  one  indispensable  quality. — What's  that?" 

It  was  Death.  Swift  and  silent,  the  red-labeled  dynamite 
car  swayed  and  rocked  as  it  gathered  speed  where  the  track 
fell  away  at  the  first  real  hill.  It  was  almost  abreast  of  the 
V  Cross  T  riders  before  they  saw  it:  what  John  Sayles  heard 
was  a  clamor  of  flying  hoofs.  Only  fifty  yards :  too  far ! 
Ralston  was  nearest.  He  held  his  place,  a  length  ahead,  the 
V  Cross  T  riders  bunched  behind.  He  flashed  up  the  side 
long  fill,  the  yielding  earth  gave  under  the  horse's  feet,  held 
him  back  for  a  split  second.  Just  as  the  fingers  of  one  hand 
clutched  at  the  iron  ladder,  his  horse  stumbled  and  rolled 
down  the  embankment  under  his  straining  mates:  they  piled 
up  over  him.  Ralston's  weight  jerked  out  behind  the  car,  his 
free  hand  grabbed  vainly,  his  desperate  hold  broke,  he  fell 
heavily  on  the  rail  behind  the  car. 

John  Sayles  launched  his  horse  like  a  thunderbolt. — Alas, 
John  Sayles  !  His  mount  was  young,  spirited,  foolish.  Fright 
ened,  he  lunged,  reared,  wheeled  away,  pitching.  The  death- 
car's  gallop  became  a  run.  One  man  was  left — Logan. 


124  WEST    IS    WEST 

Katy  gleamed  across  the  barrow-pit,  skimmed  like  a  swal 
low  up  the  sloping  bank.  Belly  to  earth  he  ran,  his  wise  feet 
on  the  slender  path  between  tie  and  slope;  ears  back,  eyes 
rolling,  proud,  glorious.  Gallant  Katy!  Never,  even  in 
dreams,  had  he  been  sent  up  against  a  box-car!  The  car  was 
at  his  hip — abreast — the  red  label  flamed  by — Logan's  hands 
scraped  against  the  car-door,  the  side;  they  closed  in  a  death 
grip  on  the  ladder,  his  arms  were  torn  almost  out  of  their 
sockets,  his  foot  thrust  against  the  saddle — he  was  on  the 
ladder ! 

The  car  leaped  at  the  head  of  Toboggan  Slide,  it  plunged 
and  rocked  and  fell  away.  Logan  clung  to  the  footboard  and 
crawled  to  the  front  end.  The  car  whirled  into  Horseshoe 
Bend  as  he  grasped  the  brake  and  stood  up.  His  blood  tin 
gled  hot  and  proud,  a  singing  wind  was  in  his  ears.  He 
turned  the  brake  to  the  limit  of  his  strength.  It  might  be 
said  that  the  car  went  no  faster — that  was  all.  He  braced 
his  boot  heels  against  the  running-board,  he  threw  all  his 
weight  out  in  front,  his  body  hanging  over  blank  and  whirling 
space.  One  notch !  Another !  He  fumbled  the  pawl  into  the 
ratchet  with  his  toe,  and  drew  back  to  rest,  every  muscle 
a-tremble.  The  jerking  ladder  had  wrenched  his  arms,  their 
strength  failed.  Again  he  threw  his  weight  out  above  dizzy 
nothingness — this  time  with  his  knees  bent.  Slowly,  he 
straightened  the  powerful  toggle-joint  of  the  knees.  Another 
notch !  Once  more,  this  time  with  arms  and  back  and  knees 
straining  together  in  a  last  desperate  effort.  Another  notch! 

The  track  wheeled  round  in  the  deep  shadow  of  Horseshoe 
Hill.  He  could  do  no  more.  The  car  went  a  little  slower — 
that  was  all. 

It  was  not  all!  Again  that  singing  wind  made  flaming  mu 
sic  to  his  ears.  The  V  Cross  T  would  race  across  the  neck  of 
the  horseshoe  and  be  there  before  him.  There  would  be  help, 
in  time.  The  east  side  of  Horseshoe  Hill  was  impassable. 
That  would  not  stop  the  V  cross  T.  What  these  men  started, 
they  carried  through — to  the  last  ditch,  and  then  some!  He 
did  not  think  it — every  drop  of  his  thrilling  blood  knew  it, 
and  rejoiced  at  it,  thanked  God  for  it! 

He  shot  from  the  black  shadow  into  a  flaming  world.  Far 
ahead,  he  saw  the  V  Cross  T  pour  in  a  living  flood — the  splen 
did,  the  strong-hearted — over  the  black  lava  wall,  cliff  and 


ABOVE  WISDOM  AND  SUBTLETY     125 

boulder  and  crumbling  rock-heap.  (It  cannot  be  done.  But 
eleven  men  and  twelve  horses  did  it,  unhurt.  For  Katy 
came.).  Nate  Logan  saw  that  there  would  scarce  be  time. 
Once  more  he  threw  himself  upon  the  brake — arms  and  legs 
and  back  and  heart  and  soul. — Another  notch! 

He  clung  blindly  to  the  brake  wheel. — A  hand  was  laid  be 
side  his.  "Let  us  spell  you  a  while,  old-timer/'  said  Tom- 
Dick-Bob.  Emil  James  came  behind,  his  face  serenely  medi 
tative  and  casual.  These  two  fought  the  brake  together:  the 
car  ground  to  a  stop.  Al  Clemens  raced  around  the  next  lit 
tle  curve  to  slow  up  the  Elevator. 

"Here's  your  horse,  Nate/'  said  Milt  Craig,  as  Logan  came 
down  the  ladder.  "Lost  your  hat?  Oh,  well,  we  don't  want 
to  go  back  for  it.  We'll  borrow  a  sunbonnet  for  you  at  Water 
Canon.  Le's  drag  it.  We  don't  want  no  chatter  with  these 
railroaders." 

The  Elevator  clanked  by,  slowing  up  to  make  gentle  coup 
ling.  John  Sayles  looked  back  over  his  shoulder  and  gasped. 

Logan  looked.  From  the  window  of  the  single  coach — a 
combination  baggage-mail-express-and-passenger  car — a  little 
girl  leaned  out  and  waved  her  hand :  a  woman  bent  above  her, 
smiling,  a  hand  on  the  child's  dress. 

Logan  held  to  the  saddle  horn.  Before  him  Saragossa 
Mountain  reeled  in  golden  mist.  Low  over  Magdalena  hill 
the  sun  broke  through  a  wisp  of  wandering  cloud:  as  if  God 
laughed  through  His  tears,  and  bent  close  in  pardonable  pride 
for  that  He  had  made  from  the  sinning  dust. 

"Kinks!"  said  Nate  Logan. 


CHAPTER   X 

THE    CUTTING    GROUND 

"THE  circle"  gathers  cattle  as  a  drag-net  gathers  fish.  The 
meshes  of  it  are  horsemen,  a  mile  or  two  miles  apart,  accord 
ing  to  the  lay  of  the  land.  Each  man  is  responsible  for  all 
cattle  between  himself  and  his  next  neighbor  on  either  hand. 

On  this  day  the  V  Cross  T  drag  had  combed  a  little  pear- 
shaped  country  with  twenty-five  miles  as  the  shortest  diam 
eter.  The  programme  was,  briefly:  Breakfast  before  day;  catch 
horses,  a  brisk  ride  of  thirty-odd  miles  to  the  pear-butt,  divide 
and  scatter,  bringing  all  cattle  to  the  appointed  roundup 
ground  by  dinner  time:  dinner  by  sections,  and  change  of 
horses :  work  the  herd  on  the  cutting  ground  through  the  long, 
hot  afternoon. 

In  "working  the  herd,"  the  horsemen,  meshes  of  the  fore 
noon,  become  a  living  fence:  some  become  gates.  The  com 
pany  men  first,  then  each  stray  man  in  turn,  goes  through  the 
herd  and  cuts  out  each  his  own. 

John  Sayles  Watterson,  Jr.,  was  part  of  that  living  fence 
to-day.  His  return  to  the  maternal  arms  had  been  postponed 
without  date.  Nor  had  Logan  carried  out  his  coastward  plans. 
Instead,  he  had  taken  his  family  out  to  San  Clemente  and  es 
tablished  them  in  Chautauqua.  Logan  himself  was  over  on 
the  Malibu,  deeper  yet  in  the  wilderness :  seeking,  report  said, 
a  practicable  path  for  a  railroad  to  the  headwaters  of  the 
Gila,  to  tap  the  vast  parallelogram  of  hinterland  which  lies 
athwart  the  Arizona-New  Mexico  border. 

Since  noon  the  never-ceasing  feet  had  trampled  the  roundup 
ground  to  powder.  The  spring  southwesters  were  blowing. 
The  roundup  was  an  impenetrable  dust-cloud,  from  whose 
whirling  center  came  rolling  mutter  and  steady  uproar — the 
complaint  of  a  thousand  protesting  cattle. 

126 


THE    CUTTING    GROUND         127 

Riders,  dim-flitting,  circled  the  herd ;  now  seen,  now  blotted 
out;  perhaps  the  cloud,  thinning  for  brief  space,  gave  a  glimpse 
of  bewildered  eyes  and  crowding  horns,  white-flashing;  to  be 
swallowed  up  again  in  swirling  tumult.  From  time  to  time 
there  appeared  on  the  cloud-edge  a  slow-moving  cluster  of 
cattle  from  which  a  steer  darted  like  four-footed  lightning; 
lapped  with  him,  nose  to  tail,  a  cutting  horse  in  eager  escort. 
They  zigzagged  in  swift,  unexpected  angles  like  a  water-skip 
per  gleaming  to  and  fro  over  a  sunny  pool.  Flashing,  turning, 
as  the  steer  tried  to  dodge  back,  the  vigilant  cow-pony  head 
ed  him  off;  still  grumbling  and  garrulous,  the  steer  hoisted 
his  tail  in  token  of  defeat  and  made  for  the  cut. 

After  cutting  out  the  steers,  the  company  calves  were 
thrown  into  a  separate  cut  and  branded,  then  the  stray  calves 
cut  out  and  branded ;  last,  stray  cattle  were  cut  out,  and  finally 
all  cuts  thrown  together  and  left  in  charge  of  a  half  dozen 
unlucky  ones  till  the  dayherd  should  come  in.  The  range 
cattle  were  started  off  and  turned  loose,  breaking  up  fan-wise 
across  the  sand  ridges  into  the  long,  clamorous  streaks,  sMll 
running  and  bawling  their  sense  of  outrage  to  high  heaven. 
The  sun  was  low ;  already  the  dayherd — huge,  unwieldly — was 
slowly  tumbling  over  the  mesa's  edge  toward  the  bed  ground. 
Close  by,  the  wrangler  was  bringing  the  horseherd  campward. 

As  the  dust  settled,  little  groups  of  men  became  visible, 
heading  for  the  chuck-wagon  on  the  river  bank,  where  in  the 
lee  of  sheltering  cottonwoods  the  cook's  fire  blazed  brightly. 
Bridle  on  neck,  the  horses  paced  soberly,  with  much  sneezing 
and  shaking  of  wise  heads ;  the  horsemen  brushing  their  hats, 
and  removing  the  handkerchiefs  tied  over  mouth  and  nose  for 
protection  from  the  choking  dust.  Last  of  all  came  the  Cattle 
Inspector  and  Wildcat  Thompson,  deep  in  earnest  converse. 

The  inspector  had  joined  the  outfit  in  the  middle  of  the 
afternoon.  The  V  Cross  T  had  not  seen  him  since  the  steer- 
shipping  of  the  West  Work  at  Ridgepole,  three  weeks  before 
— the  day  of  the  runaway  freight  car  and  the  rehabilitation  of 
Nate  Logan. 

"Say,  Mr.  Thompson,"  said  the  inspector,  "there  was  a 
dogie  in  the  pen  up  to  your  ranch  and  the  feller  there  wasn't 
disseminating  no  information  whatever.  He  said  you  was  the 
editor  of  the  question  bureau — his  business  was  to  see  that 


128  WEST    IS   WEST 

the  stock  got  water  and  to  blab  yearlings ;  givin'  out  statistics 
to  gratify  idle  curiosity  weren't  no  part  of  his  lay.  He  had 
all  the  symptoms  of  the  malignant  pip.  So  I  thought  I  would 
come  down  and  see  you.  How  about  it?" 

"Has  it  got  a  Hook-and-Ladder  brand  breaking  out  on  it 
somewhere,  and  its  ears  cut  bias?"  queried  Thompson  lightly. 
"  'Cause  if  it  ain't  decorated  that  way,  it  sure  ain't  mine.  I 
don't  run  but  the  one  brand. — Wasn't  that  dusk  rank?  Why, 
along  about  four  o'clock  a  man  on  the  far  side  of  the  herd 
might  have  stubbed  his  toe  on  the  Rocky  Mountains  unbe 
knownst." 

The  inspector  flushed.  "Meanin'  that  if  it  wears  your 
brand,  it's  yours,  come  hell  or  high  water?  Now,  there's  no 
use  taking  that  tone,  Steve.  I  ain't  mistrusting  you — stealing 
calves  ain't  your  style.  But  there's  the  law.  I  got  to  see 
you  prove  that  the  dogie's  mother  was  yours.  You  know  the 
law  as  well  as  I  do." 

"No  man  shall  keep  a  calf  under  seven  months'  old,  unless 
he  can  produce  the  mother  on  demand,"  quoted  Steve  soberly. 
"Or,  should  the  said  cow  have  the  misfortune  to  be  dead,  he 
must  have  the  last  will  and  testament  of  the  deceased,  signed 
by  two  disinterested  witnesses,  settin'  forth,  in  the  name  of 
God,  Amen ! — bein'  of  sound  mind  but  failin'  health,  owin'  to 
havinf  been  struck  by  lightnin',  or  eaten  by  bears,  as  the  case 
might  be,  that  she  does  hereby  make,  ordain,  publish  and  de 
clare  these  presents,  to  whom  it  may  concern,  to-wit,  namely: 
That  she,  the  aforesaid  cow,  being  owned  by  her  owner,  sub 
ject  to  first  mortgage  held  by  Citizen's  Bank  of  Tucumcari, 
does  hereby  give,  will,  bequeath  and  devise  to  said  owner,  his 
heirs,  executors  and  assigns  forever,  all  her  right,  title  and 
interest  in  the  following  named  property,  to-wit:  The  undi 
vided  four  quarters  of  one  calf,  located  in  the  South  East 
One  Fourth  of  the  South  West  One  Fourth  of  the  United 
States,  and  more  particularly  described  in  schedule  A,  as  re 
gards  age,  sex,  color  and  disposition,  and  that  she  was  right 
fully  and  legally  seized  of  said  calf?  Sure  thing !"  He  paused 
for  breath. 

"Further,"  he  recited  glibly,  "any  one  violating  the  pro 
visions  of  this  act  is  liable,  on  conviction,  to  a  term  of  eleven 
months  in  county  jail  or  penitentiary,  or  a  fine  of  five  hun 
dred  dollars  to  one  thousand  dollars,  or  both.  Oh,  I  know 


THE    CUTTING    GROUND         129 

the  law  from  A  to  Albuquerque !  And  the  calf  is  sold  for  the 
Sanitary  Board  rake-off — to  pay  for  board  meetin's  and  to 
carry  elections  with." 

The  inspector  expostulated.  "Oh,  well  now,  what's  the  use 
of  getting  hot  under  the  collar?"  he  said.  "I  suppose,  of 
course,  you  can  prove  the  dogie's  mother  was  yours." 

"Trove?'"  said  Steve  disdainfully.  "'Prove'?  You  can 
prove  anything — if  getting  two  disinterested  parties  to  swear 
to  it,  at  five  dollars  per  party,  is  any  proof.  I  mind  meetin* 
Jim  Burleson  in  Lincoln  once.  Charged  with  stealing  a 
span  of  mules,  he  was.  'Hello,  Uncle  Jim!'  I  sings  out. 
'How's  your  case  comin'  on?'  'Oh,  that's  all  right/  he  says. 
'That's  all  right!  No  trouble  at  all.  Got  it  all  fixed  up.  I 
can  prove  that  I  bought  'em  by  half  a  dozen  good  men.  Jest 
one  thing  I  am  worried  about:  I  don't  know  yet  which  span 
of  mules  it  is !'  " 

"Now  look  here,  Steve,"  said  the  inspector  protestingly. 
"Of  course,  I  don't  doubt  that  the  calf's  yours.  I'm  your 
friend.  But  I  got  to  do  my  duty " 

"Do  your  duty,  then — who's  hinderin'  you?"  said  Steve. 
"But  don't  get  mixed  up  none  about  what  your  duty  is.  You 
don't  consider  it  anyways  part  of  your  duty  to  fine  or  im 
prison  me  yourself,  do  you?  That  takes  a  judge  and  jury. 
Nor  to  arrest  me?  That  takes  a  sheriff  and  three  drunk  dep 
uties  to  do  that.  That's  what  I  elected  a  sheriff  for — to  look 
after  such  things  for  me.  You  ain't  getting  paid  to  arrest 
folks.  You  inspect — and  if  you  see  things  anyways  bent  or 
curved-like,  your  duty  is  to  report  it.  That  calf  isn't  seven 
months  old — its  mother  is  dead  as  Melchisdec — I'm  keeping 
it  up,  and  raising  it  on  my  old  milk  cow;  I  won't  produce  no 
witnesses  to  prove  that  its  mother  ever  was  mine.  Why,  if 
everybody  had  to  prove  they  wasn't  ownin'  other  folks'  prop 
erty,  a  title-deed  wouldn't  be  no  more  good  than  a  rain  check 
in  hell!  Now  go  ahead  and  report — but  don't  you  touch  that 
calf!" 

"You'll  get  yourself  in  trouble,  Steve,"  warned  the  inspec 
tor.  "What's  the  use  of  being  stubborn?  You  don't  want  to 
defy  the  law.  A  good  citizen  ought  to  uphold  it." 

"Don,"  said  Steve,  more  seriously,  "a  man  that  keeps  a 
foolish  law  is  only  a  fool — but  a  man  who  doesn't  break  a 


130  WEST    IS   WEST 

wicked  law  is  knave  and  coward,  all  both,  and  fool  besides. 
Your  law  is  foolish:  the  open  range  don't  average  one  man  to 
every  ten  miles  square.  But  cows  die  dead,  whether  you've 
got  witnesses  or  not.  It's  hardly  exaggeratin'  to  say  they  all 
die,  sooner  or  later — cows  do.  Leastways,  I  never  seen  none 
that  didn't  die  once — sometime  in  their  lives.  And  the  rains 
don't  begin  till  July ;  the  calf  harvest  comes  before  that  when 
the  grass  is  shortest  and  driest ;  right  then  is  when  most  cows 
die ;  it's  exactly  the  cows  with  calves  that  have  the  best  chance 
to  die.  You  lose  your  cow  by  act  of  God,  your  calf  by  act  of 
Legislature.  You  got  no  right  to  save  the  calf — unless  you 
keep  two  disinterested  witnesses  under  pay  ridin*  with  you  all 
the  time. 

"It's  a  wicked  law.  The  Rio  Grande  is  in  flood,  calving 
time ;  when  it  goes  down,  it  leaves  great  stretches  of  mud  and 
quicksand;  the  lakes  are  dryin'  up;  hundreds  of  cows  bog 
down  and  die  every  day,  leaving  bright-eyed,  pink-nosed  calves 
makin'  anxious  and  pointed  inquiries  concernin'  breakfast. 
'Tain't  no  difference  whose  they  was.  When  a  man  finds  one 
he's  either  got  to  take  it  home  across  his  saddle  for  the  kids 
to  raise,  or  else  shoot  it.  He  can't  leave  the  poor  little  trick 
to  starve — a  man  can't — law  or  no  law." 

"Yes,  but  there's  lots  of  thievin'  goin'  on,"  the  inspector  in 
terposed.  "Cuttin'  young  calves  off  from  their  mammies." 

"Prove  it,  then — prove  it  and  punish  'em,"  said  Steve.  "No 
self-respectin'  cow-thief  'ud  do  a  thing  like  that.  The 
union  'ud  take  away  their  cards  too  quick.  Such  dirt  ain't 
man-size.  If  you  prove  it  on  me,  give  me  all  the  law  calls  for, 
and  take  my  tobacco.  But  don't  try  it  without  proof.  I'll 
secede. 

"This  law  proposes  to  put  the  burden  of  proof  on  the  stoop- 
shouldered  white  man — make  him  prove  he  is  innocent.  Man 
wouldn't  mind  doin'  that  if  was  guilty,  but  when  he  ain't, 
it  annoys  him.  Talk  about  it's  bein*  unconstitutional — why, 
it's  plumb  unhygienic !  It's  contrary  to  bedrock  principles  of 
common  law — and  common  sense,  too,  which  is  a  damn  sight 
more  important.  I  got  nothin'  against  you,  Don;  but  when 
you  send  in  your  report,  you  give  the  Insanitary  Board  my  best 
respects  and  tell  'em  Wildcat  Thompson  says  they  can  go 
plumb  slap-dab  to  hell:  that  I  keep  this  calf;  that  they  can't 


THE    CUTTING   GROUND         131 

find  twelve  men  in  the  Territory  that'll  cinch  me  for  not  lettin' 
it  starve,  and  if  they  fool  with  me  one  little  bit  I'll  fix  'em  so 
their  own  dogs'll  bark  at  'em!  Why,  if  they  ever  try  to  en 
force  such  a  pipe-dream  as  that,  I'll  rip  that  board  up  into 
toothpicks !  I'll  plow  Santa  Fe  up  and  sow  it  with  salt;  tour 
ists  in  little  black  caps  '11  be  gettin'  off  the  Pullmans  and  in- 
quirin'  where  the  capital  used  to  be !" 

"Spare  the  women  and  children,"  implored  the  inspector. 
'  'If,  peradventure,  there  be  any  good  men/  " 

Wildcat  grinned.  "Shucks!  No  harm  done  as  far  as  you 
and  me  are  concerned.  I  got  to  catch  my  night-horse." 

The  inspector  spat  thoughtfully  as  he  unsaddled  and  turned 
his  mount  in  the  bunch.  "Now,"  he  soliloquized,  "there  is 
one  man  you  could  fall  down  and  worship  without  sin — for 
there's  nothing  like  him  in  heaven  above  or  earth  below  or  the 
waters  under  the  earth.  Of  all  the  unruly,  consarned,  con 
trary  critters !"  Then  a  smile  broke  over  his  face.  "I'm  sure 
sorry  for  the  Board !"  he  said. 

By  the  fire  the  busy  cook  hustled  along  the  grub-pile.  The 
"Bobtail"  guard  had  saddled  their  night  horses  and  were  off 
at  a  gallop  to  relieve  the  day  herders  and  to  bring  the  herd  to 
the  bed  ground;  to  hold  them  there  till  the  First  Guard  could 
eat  supper  and  take  the  herd.  The  men  who  had  started  off 
the  range  cattle  were  riding  back  slowly;  the  low  sun  made 
their  shadows  long  and  thin  behind  them;  the  wind  died  with 
the  dying  day.  The  night-wrangler  and  the  First  Guard  had 
already  caught  and  tied  their  horses  and  were  eating  "First 
Table."  The  Autocrat  permitted  this  out  of  mere  humanity, 
so  they  could  go  on  duty  and  let  the  day-wrangler  and  the  Bob 
tail  come  in  to  supper. 

The  inspector,  deep  in  thought,  watched  the  roping  out  of 
night  horses.  "Now  Steve  never  stole  that  calf  one  single 
time,"  he  pondered.  "Some  girl  must  have  turned  him  down 
good  and  plenty  for  him  to  be  cravin'  to  lock  horns  with  the 
Cattle  Sanitary  Board  just  for  the  sake  of  entertainment  and 
exercise.  Myself,  I  wouldn't  choose  that  form  of  excitement 
any.  That's  what  I  call  goin*  some.  Now,  if  an  irresistible 
force  should  have  a  head-end  collision  with  an  immovable  body  ? 
Answer:  There'd  be  somethin'  doin'.  I  would  sure  like  to 
behold  that  same — somewhat  aloof,  through  a  telescope." 


CHAPTER   XI 

THE    NIGHT   GUARD 

Two  by  two,  the  eight  men  of  the  Third  Guard  jogged 
melodiously  around  the  herd.  Emil  James  and  Tom-Dick-Bob 
were  paired  off:  old  man  Gibson  and  Milt  Craig;  "Dallas"  Mc- 
Combs  and  Neighbor  Jones,  representing  the  country  east  of 
the  river;  with  John  Sayles  and  Wildcat  Thompson  for  the 
last  couple. 

The  cattle  were  quiet  now,  and  for  the  most  part  asleep. 
From  before  or  behind,  slow  chanted,  monotonous,  intermin 
able  songs  of  doubtful  propriety  floated  to  John  Sayles ;  or  at 
times  a  cigarette,  dim  glowing  through  the  dark,  told  of  his 
Comrades-on-Guard. 

Steve  told  John  Sayles  of  his  talk  with  the  inspector.  "They 
don't  mean  no  harm,  the  Board  don't,"  he  said  magnanimously. 
"Good  old  grannies.  Why,  they  mean  their  fussy  old  laws 
to  do  good  every  time — to  put  down  stealin'  and  dirt.  The 
Legislature?  Oh,  it  does  just  as  it's  bid,  like  a  good  child — 
if  nobody  don't  bid  higher.  The  Sanitary  Board  deals  and  the 
Legislature  passes.  The  trouble  is,  the  Board  appoints  them 
selves,  spontaneous,  like  a  wart  on  a  thumb;  they  ain't  ac 
countable  to  nobody,  and  they  see  only  one  side,  as  the  din 
ner  pail  said  to  the  tramp.  Their  side.  So  the  butchers'  law, 
the  strays-sale  law,  every  law  bearin'  on  the  cow  business  has 
just  one  effect:  Head  you  off  every  time.  They  work  unnec 
essary  hardship  on  the  small  cow-man  till  he  has  to  work  like 
a  steam  sausage-grinder  to  make  both  ends  meet. 

"Take  the  maverick  law,  f'rinstance.  The  cattle  business  is 
curious.  How  frequent  I  have  explained  patiently  to  pin- 
headed  and  inquirin'  tenderfeet,  that  cattle  don't  grow  in  rows, 
like  cabbages,  and  can't  be  picked  just  when  they're  ripe,  like 
apples.  They've  got  four  legs  apiece,  and  move  from  place 

132 


THE    NIGHT    GUARD  133 

to  place.  Lots  of  times,  in  the  mountains  and  basques,  they 
get  so  wild  they  won't  hardly  lick  salt  out  of  your  hand.  So 
they  raise  calves  that  grow  up  unbranded.  After  they  quit 
their  mammies,  these  mavericks  belong  to  the  Sanitary  Board. 
The  law  says  so. 

"That  is  to  say,  all  your  unbranded  stuff  that's  swift  enough 
to  outrun  you  belong  to  some  one  else.  Every  long-ear  that 
got  cut  off  from  his  mammy  to-day,  and  was  lucky  enough  to 
make  a  get-away,  belonged  to  the  Board  the  minute  they  hit 
the  brush.  The  law  says  so.  All  sleepers  go  to  the  Board. 
Keeping  the  kitty  for  the  whole  dum  Territory  makes  a  good 
big  rake-off,  and  no  light  or  license  to  pay  for.  Some  day 
they'll  enact  that  all  ring-streaked  and  speckled  ones  belong 
to  the  Board,  I  guess.  But  it's  no  matter — they  don't  repre 
sent.  It's  only  a  theory. 

"In  practice,  if  a  bunch  of  us  start  up  a  maverick,  the  man 
swingin'  the  fastest  loop  puts  his  mark  on,  the  rest  of  us  set 
ting  on  the  yearlin's  head,  while  the  lucky  one  brands  it.  Of 
course,  as  a  matter  of  courtesy,  the  man  ownin'  the  range  has 
the  preference — if  he  catches  the  critter  first. 

"And  that's  all  right,  all  right.  But  human  nature  is  mighty 
similar.  From  branding  a  sure-enough  maverick  to  getting  a 
calf  that  has  ambitions  to  be  one  as  soon  as  his  mammy  weans 
him,  is  a  mighty  short  step,  if  you're  alone  at  the  time.  A 
bunch  of  you  see  a  long-ear  ten  months  old,  take  after  him 
and  waste  him.  Seems  like  a  short  yearlin'  is  the  hardest  thing 
there  is  to  put  your  rope  on  in  the  brush.  But  the  next  day 
any  one  of  the  bunch  sees  the  same  calf,  rising  fifteen  months 
old  now,  and  he  doesn't  get  away  none  whatever.  Nor  his 
mammy  ain't  with  him  either,  along  toward  the  last. 

"Right  there  is  where  complications  ensue  most  astonishin*. 
If  a  yearlin'  is  caught  wearin*  a  big  company's  brand,  and 
suckin'  a  poor  man's  cow,  they  throw  it  down  and  burn  a 
big  stripe  slaunch-wise,  for  a  mistake-brand,  giving  the  poor 
man  an  unmarked  one  to  pay  for  it.  For  the  company's  brand 
is  sacred  and  mustn't  be  barred  out.  But,  when  they  find  a 
calf  wearin'  a  little  man's  brand  followin*  a  company  cow, 
look-see !  The  play  is  to  put  the  stripes  on  the  man.  That's 
different.  It's  no  'mistake*  now,  just  'mis-took' — short  for 
stole.  It  don't  take  much  education  to  see  that  ain't  hardly  a 


134  WEST   IS   WEST 

square  deal.  So  we  don't  sometimes  most  always  run  our 
horses  plumb  down  to  tell  the  sheriff  the  turr'ble  sights  we've 
seen,  out  of  town.  Not  always. 

"Havin'  in  mind  these  little  discrepancies  and  mebbe-so  a 
few  more,  we  sorter  overlook  the  law.  Take  the  yearlings  that 
got  away  to-day.  They  might  have  been  the  Company's,  or 
yours,  or  mine,  or  Sum's,  or  anybody's.  You  can't  tell  now, 
unless  they  get  with  their  mammies  again.  And  they  won't,  if 
their  mammies  belonged  to  us  little  stray  fellers — for  all  stray 
cows  are  taken  along  in  the  herd.  There's  only  one  thing 
dead  sure  about  it.  They  do  not  belong  to  the  Santa  Fe  Rail 
road  nor  the  Sanitary  Board,  nor  yet  to  the  Smithsonian  Insti 
tute.  'Cause  why?  They  ain't  none  of  'em  got  no  cattle  run 
ning  here,  nor  nobody  running  'em.  So  whoever  gets  his  twine 
on  them  mavericks,  their  his'n,  and  no  questions  asked.  It's 
got  to  be  that-a-way.  Human  nature  won't  stand  for  no  laws 
confiscatin'  right  and  left  for  nice  old  gentlemen  livin'  in  town, 
with  bay  windows  on  'em  so  big  they  can't  tie  their  own  shoes. 
They'd  orter  buy  some  cows,  and  look  after  'em,  if  they  want 
any  mavericks  from  this  range." 

A  browsing  steer  threw  up  his  head,  snuffed  uneasily,  and 
made  a  dash  for  liberty.  The  conversationalists  hurled  through 
the  starlight  and  rounded  him  back  after  a  brisk  chase.  As 
they  resumed  their  circle,  they  were  close  behind  the  next 
couple;  a  voice  reached  them,  singing  gaily  to  the  tune  of 
Boom-de-A : 

"  'Way  down  on  the  Yank-tr-plank 
"Bull-frog  jumped  from  bank  to  bank! 
Tore  himself  from  flank  to  flank, 
Bruised  himself  from  shank  to  shank!" 

"Steve,"  said  John  Sayles,  as  they  fell  back  to  their  proper 
interval,  "aren't  you  afraid  they'll  make  you  trouble?  You 
want  to  remember  that  bull-frog.  Don't  be  too  ambitious." 

"They  won't  arrest  me"  said  Steve  confidently.  They  das- 
sent  risk  their  little  old  scare-crow  law  on  man  that'll  go  the 
route  and  make  a  test  case  of  it.  It  might  terrify  people  with 
a  guilty  conscience  and  bad  digestion — 'the  wicked  flee,  whom 
no  man  pursueth' — 'but  it  won't  scare  nobody  above  an  insec'. 


THE    NIGHT    GUARD  135 

I'm  like  the  feller  was  about  religion — I'm  open  to  conviction, 
all  right,  but  I'd  like  to  see  any  one  convict  me.  Trouble, 
though?  I  shouldn't  wonder.  My  cattle's  mortgaged  to  De- 
Forest — and  when  the  DeForest  has  chilblains,  the  Sanitary 
Board  rubs  iodine  on  their  feet.  Then  there's  two  years' 
back  taxes  due.  The  Board  is  all  peanut  politicians,  and  them 
and  their  other  friends  and  stand  in  with  themselves  right 
well.  Guess  there'll  be  some  few  sparks  flyin'  upwards,  all 
right." 

"Can't  you  prove  ownership  of  that  dogie?" 

"That  calf?  Sure.  His  mammy  got  crowded  off  a  bluff 
and  broke  her  back.  Time  we  gathered  a  car  of  butcher-stuff 
last  winter.  The  whole  outfit  seen  it." 

"Wouldn't  it  have  been  wiser "  John  Sayles  hesitated. 

Steve  took  it  up. 

"Wouldn't  it  be  wise  of  a  man  to  stand  still  while  some 
one  wrapped  cobwebs  around  him?  Cobwebs  *ud  hold  him — 
if  he  stood  still  long  enough.  But  if  he  stretched  out  his 
arm?" 

"What'll  you  do  then?" 

"O,  I'll  do  like  the  fly  did 

"  *~A  fly  and  a  flea  in  a  flue, 
Were  imprisoned,  so  what  could  they  do? 

Said  the  flea,  "Let  us  fly." 

Said  the  fly,  "Let  us  flee/9 
So  they  flew  through  a  flaw  in  the  flue!"9 

"I'll  use  a  little  diplomacy  and  crawl  through  a  flaw  some- 
wheres.  Here  comes  the  Last  Guard.  Now  for  one  small 
short  nap." 


CHAPTER  XII 

BELL-THE-CAT 

THE  river-work  was  done,  the  steers  had  been  shipped  at 
Albuquerque:  the  wagon  was  loitering  home  with  what  Mali- 
bu  Flat  and  V  Cross  T  Cattle  had  been  picked  up  along  the 
river:  taking  the  long  lane  route  west  of  Thief  Mountain,  to 
avoid  the  farm-and-wire-fence  country  along  the  Rio  Grande. 
Once  back  on  the  home  range,  the  rodeo  would  break  up:  no 
more  work  until  next  fall,  August  or  September,  according 
to  the  rains. 

John  Sayles  meant  to  go  back  to  the  N  8  ranch ;  Emil  had 
said  nothing  of  any  new  venture  in  pursuit  of  happiness :  and 
Steve  Thompson  had  already  left  the  wagon.  Steve  went  to 
his  ranch  first:  then  to  Saragossa,  the  county  seat,  to  adjust 
some  business  matters. 

"Mornin',"  said  Steve  to  the  Tax  Collector. 

The  official  acknowledged  the  greeting  coldly  from  his  seat 
at  the  desk. 

"Thought  I'd  come  over  and  settle  up,"  said  Steve  pleas 
antly.  "Say,  you  fellows  got  me  payin'  on  more  cattle  than 
some  of  my  neighbors  that  sell  fifty  steers  to  my  ten,  and 
vote  the  right  ticket.  However,  I  ain't  beefin'  about  past 
favors,  but  this  year — Lordy!  Why  I've  always  heard  that 
the  quickest  way  to  improve  the  breed  of  cattle  was  to  cross 
an  old  Chihuahua  cow  with  a  freight  train,  but  the  way  they 
socked  it  onto  me  this  year  you'd  think  my  herd  was  all  im 
ported  from  Scotland  overnight." 

"I  have  nothing  to  do  with  that.  Talk  to  the  assessor. 
It's  none  of  my  business,"  replied  the  Collector,  with  chill 
official  dignity. 

"Yes,  that's  right,  too — but  it'll  be  your  business  when  you 

136 


BELL-THE-CAT  137 

come  to  collect  this  year's  taxes.  But,  shucks!  What's  the 
use  of  borrowin'  trouble?  Lots  of  water  will  run  under  the 
bridge  before  they  become  due — to  say  nothin'  of  bein'  paid." 

The  Collector  looked  up  from  his  desk.  "Your  taxes  with 
penalty  amount  to  one  hundred  and  eighty-seven  dollars  and 
thirty-six  cents/'  he  said,  in  condemnatory  tones.  "I  have 
written  to  you  several  times,  Mr.  Thompson." 

Steve  laughed  pleasantly.  "You  know  what  the  Irish 
butcher  told  the  doctor  ?  'Waal,  Waal !  For-rty  dollars  fir 
midicine  and  for-rty  dollars  fir  bafe!  Isn't  it  odd?'  Would 
you  mind  if  I  take  one  of  my  chairs?  I'm  tired  standing." 
He  sat  down  without  waiting  for  an  answer. 

"Your  chairs?"  Neither  glance  nor  tone  was  polite.  The 
Collector  thoroughly  disapproved  of  Thompson's  existence, 
and  being  in  his  own  yard,  took  pains  not  to  conceal  it. 

"Well  I  guess  mebbe  I  didn't  state  that  just  right,"  ad 
mitted  Steve  handsomely.  "Ought  to  have  said  'our'  chairs, 
seein'  as  you're  a  citizen  too."  He  unrolled  a  bundle  and 
counted.  "Here's  seven  mountain  lion  scalps,  and  one  bear 
scalp,  at  twenty  dollars  each.  Gimme  a  receipt  and  I  pay 
you  the  seven  thirty-six  difference."  He  counted  out  the 
money  and  waited  expectantly. 

The  Collector  frowned  heavily. 

"We  don't  do  business  that  way — hardly.  You  plank  over 
the  cash." 

"O — and  then  you  hand  it  back  again  for  my  scalps?  I 
see !"  said  Steve  innocently.  "If  you  want  to  be  the  party  of 
the  first  part,  why  not?  It's  only  a  little  vanity — not  worth 
quarreling  over." 

"You  pay  over  that  money,"  demanded  the  Collector, 
flushed  and  angry.  "The  Commissioners  '11  give  you  scrip 
for  your  scalps.  There's  no  money  in  the  treasury  to  pay 
bounties  with.  All  we  have  it  set  apart  for  other  purposes." 

"Both  in  the  same  boat,  by  George!"  Steve's  tones  were 
dulcet  and  sympathetic.  "No  money  in  my  treasury  either — 
not  to  pay  taxes  with.  What  money  I  have  is  set  apart  for 
the  purpose  of  settin'  together  at  a  little  game  down  to  Joe's 
place.  That  what  you  keepin'  yours  for?" 

This  bit  deep.  The  Collector  was  a  known  devotee  of  the 
national  game.  He  was  furious,  but  reticent  about  express 
ing  his  emotions.  The  bruit  ran  of  Wildcat  Thompson  that 


138  WEST    IS    WEST 

he  turned  not  back  from  any  plow  whereunto  he  set  his  hand, 
"Fight  a  buzz-saw  and  it  a-goin',"  said  the  countryside. 
Moreover,  the  Collector  feared  the  puncher's  rasping  tongue. 
So  he  swallowed  his  wrath.  "We  pay  you  in  scrip,  Mr.  Thomp 
son,  having  no  money " 

"But  if  I  pay  you  one  hundred  and  eighty  dollars,  you'll 
have  money,  don't  you  see?"  Steve  insisted.  "Then  you  can 
pay  me  for  my  scalps  and  we'll  take  one  drink  on  me  and 
one  on  the  county." 

The  exasperated  official  chewed  his  mouth.  "No,  no — you* 
don't  understand,"  he  said,  wiping  his  clammy  brow.  "This 
money  doesn't  go  into  the  bounty  fund.  There's  a  special 
tax  for  that.  We  give  you  scrip — the  county's  promise  to 
pay — and  you  either  wait  till  we  have  the  money  or  you  sell 
the  scrip  for  what  you  can  get  for  it." 

"O,  if  you  put  it  that  way,"  said  Steve,  generously.  "No 
body  wants  to  jump  on  a  county  when  it's  down.  Give  me 
your  little  old  scrip." 

"The  Commissioners  give  you  the  scrip,"  explained  the 
Collector  indulgently — inwardly  congratulating  himself  on 
having  brought  this  difficult  person  to  see  reason.  "My  part 
is  to  receive  taxes  from  you,  for  instance." 

"I'll  just  give  you  scrip,"  said  Steve. 

"You'll  what?"     The  last  word  was  screeched. 

"Give  you  scrip.  You  can  keep  it  till  I  have  money  not 
set  aside  for  other  purposes — or  you  can  sell  it  for  what  you 
can  get  for  it!" 

Speechless,  the  Collector  glared  at  this  persistent  and  im 
practicable  taxpayers.  He  made  more  motions  with  his  mouth ; 
but  no  more  words  came. 

"Wait!"  he  squealed  at  last.    "Wait  till  I  get  back!" 

He  reappeared  shortly,  followed  by  Commissioners,  As 
sessors,  Treasurer,  County  Clerk,  District  Attorney,  some  as 
sorted  politicians,  and  Santiago  Padilla,  sheriff.  Low-browed 
was  the  sheriff,  with  a  heavy  brutal  face — a  "Killer"  with  a 
record.  They  filed  in  awkwardly,  each  waiting  for  someone 
to  begin.  Steve  kept  his  chair. 

"Take  a  seat,"  he  said  sweetly,  with  a  patronizing  wave 
of  hand  and  cigarette. 

It  was  "Johnny-the-Slick,"  smooth  of  phrase,  who  spoke 
up:  Chairman  of  the  Commissioners,  also  member  of  the 


BELL-THE-CAT  139 

Sanitary  Board,  and,  through  Survival  of  the  Slickest,  Facile 
Princeps,  or  Easy  Boss  of  the  territory.  He  was  singularly 
unlike  Steve's  word  picture  of  the  "fussy  old  grannies"  of  the 
Sanitary  Board;  an  upstanding,  broad-shouldered,  muscular 
man  of  forty,  with  a  shrewd  face  and  keen  though  furtive 
eyes,  and  with  the  square  chin  said  by  its  possessors  to  in 
dicate  determination.  A  born  wire-puller,  of  cool  temper  and 
plausible  tongue,  a  reader  of  motives,  a  generous  divider,  and 
— to  give  everybody  his  due — unquestionably  a  good  friend  to 
his  friends,  The  Boss  was  a  natural  leader  of  any  body  OK 
men — that  could  not  go  without  a  leader.  So  far,  he  had 
never  met  defeat  or  check:  so  his  admirers  boasted.  He  was 
a  perfect  specimen  of  mental  and  physical  manhood,  except 
for  mere  details.  He  was  over-cautious,  for  instance,  lack 
ing  the  bump  of  indiscretion;  forgetful  of  undesirable  circum 
stances,  absent  minded,  and  easily  confused  about  portable 
property.  Save  for  these  trifling  faults,  his  equipment  was 
admirable. 

He  spoke  oracularly. 

"Now,  Mr.  Thompson,  we  surely  can  settle  this  little  mis 
understanding  without  any  difficulty.  You  must  obey  the  law." 

"Must  is  a  big  little  word,"  observed  Steve  dryly.  "The 
county  owes  me  one  hundred  and  eighty  dollars.  I  owe  as 
much  to  the  county,  and  a  little  more.  One  debt  cancels  the 
other.  I  hereby  offer  the  difference,  seven  dollars  and  thirty- 
six  cents  in  cash.  A  receipt,  please,  or  it's  all  off  with  the 
big  Swede." 

"I  can  make  that  perfectly  clear  to  you,  Mr.  Thompson," 
said  the  Easy  Boss  persuasively.  "A  special  tax  of  six  mills 
on  the  dollar  is  levied  on  stockmen  only,  over  and  above  the 
ordinary  tax,  and  from  the  proceeds  of  this  all  the  bounties 
are  paid.  The  fund  is  now  exhausted,  and  we  are  not  al 
lowed  to  use  the  other  money.  We  must  pay  scrip." 

"Very  pretty,"  said  Steve.  "As  it  happens,  I've  seen  the 
scrip  you  issue.  The  law  is  printed  on  the  back  of  it.  No 
bounty  is  to  be  paid  to  men  owing  back  taxes.  Likewise,  I 
pay  no  taxes  to  counties  owing  me  back  bounty.  I  hereby 
unanimously  repeal  your  laws  and  offer  you  a  perfectly  just 
settlement,  man  to  county,  without  no  law.  If  I  owe  you 
a  dollar  and  you  owe  me  a  dollar,  we're  square.  If  I  owe 


140  WEST    IS    WEST 

you  one  hundred  and  eighty  dollars,  and  you  owe  me  one 
hundred  and  eighty  dollars,  we're  square.  Not  a  hundred 
and  eighty  times  as  square — just  square." 

The  Easy  Boss  lost  his  patience.  He  was  not  used  to  being 
thus  lightly  entreated.  For  six  years  he  had  "carried  New 
Mexico  in  his  vest  pocket"  without  inconvenience  to  either. 
He  was  not  one  to  be  set  at  naught  by  a  penniless  puncher. 

"You  got  to  pay!"  he  sputtered.  "There's  a  way  to  make 
you  pay.  The  sheriff " 

"You  are  singularly  careless  in  your  choice  of  words,"  said 
Steve,  correcting  him.  "Make  me  pay?  Make?  ME?  Why, 
Mr.  Chairman,  you  can't  make  me  do  anything!  There  is 
only  one  thing  any  man  has  to  do.  That  is,  to  die.  He  has 
the  casting  vote  on  every  other  proposition  under  the  sun. 
Think  it  over — see  if  I'm  not  right.  What  you  probably  mean 
to  say  is  that  the  sheriff  can  levy  on  my  property  and  sell  it 
for  taxes.  He  might  do  that." 

"He'll  do  that— he'll  start  to-day !"  bellowed  the  Easy  Boss, 
thus  defied.  "Padilla!" 

Padilla  stepped  forward — and  the  county  administration 
thoughtfully  side-stepped,  convenient  to  the  windows. 

But  Steve  made  no  move.  He  seemed  alarmed.  "I  mort 
gaged  my  cattle  a  while  back,"  he  ventured  timidly. 

"That's  so — I'd  forgotten.  To  DeForest.  He'll  foreclose 
on  you  now.  Sheriff,  you'll  have  to  collect  from  DeForest." 

"I — I  don't  think  DeForest  will  like  that,"  observed  Steve 
doubtfully.  "I  paid  him  off  last  week.  I  don't  think  he'll 
pay  the  taxes — but  he  may  if  he  wants  to." 

"Sheriff,"  said  the  indignant  and  vindicative  boss.  "You 
will  get  the  necessary  papers  and  attach  this  man's  cattle  at 
once." 

Steve  snuggled  back  in  his  chair  with  shrewdly  twinkling 
eyes. 

"Really,"  he  said,  indolently.  "It  would  serve  you  right  to 
let  you  send  the  Sheriff  out  to  my  place.  But  I  don't  hold 
no  malice,  so  I'll  explain.  It's  some  complicated.  Like  a  fel 
ler  in  Kay  See  that  wanted  to  go  to  Sedalia.  Ticket  cost 
three  simoleons  and  he  didn't  have  but  a  two-spot.  So  he 
went  to  a  pawnshop  and  soaked  his  two-dollar  bill  for  a  dol 
lar  and  a  half.  Then  he  sold  the  pawn  ticket  for  another 
dollar  and  a  half  and  hit  the  train." 


BELL-THE-CAT  141 

The  Collector's  jaw  dropped;  the  First  Citizen,  with  puck 
ered  forehead,  rolled  his  underlip  between  thumb  and  fin 
ger.  "Now  where  on  earth  did  that  other  dollar  come  from?" 
he  said,  in  a  perplexed  aside,  to  the  District  Attorney. 

"You'd  better  watch  the  safe,"  returned  that  official  darkly; 
and  began  a  suspicious  count  of  his  fingers. 

"My  problem  in  high  finance  works  just  like  that  only 
different,  backwards,  inside  out,  and  both  ends  in  the  middle," 
explained  Steve.  "You  see,  I  sold  my  cattle  to  a  stranger- 
man,  and  he  shipped  'em  from  La  Joya.  They're  in  Dakota 
or  Idaho  or  I  dunno,  now." 

"We'll  get  the  money,"  snarled  the  Boss. 

"Well,"  said  Steve,  mildly,  "mebbe  you  will.  But  I  have  my 
doubts.  I  paid  DeForest  off  and  bought  a  half  interest  in 
the  Tanner  cattle  with  the  subtrahend.  I  held  out  just  even 
money  enough  to  pay  out  all  my  outstandin'  indebtedness,  and 
a  little  over  for  diet." 

"We'll  levy  on  the  Tanner  stock,"  shouted  the  Boss  furi 
ously. 

Steve  shook  his  head  with  a  thoughtful  smile. 

"Why-y,  no — I  don't  think  you'll  do  that,"  he  demurred 
blandly.  "Tanner  came  in  from  the  Malibu  last  week  and 
paid  all  taxes  due  on  the  brand.  He's  got  the  receipts.  The 
incident  is  closed,  and  I'm  going  to  El  Paso  for  a  little 
pasear." 

The  Collector  nodded  confirmation.  The  thwarted  and  de 
fied  Dictator  glared  at  the  passive  figure  in  the  chair.  He 
saw  his  prestige  melting  away,  and  resorted  to  his  last  weapon. 
There  was  nervous  expectancy  in  the  air  and  the  Administra 
tion  shrank  so  close  to  the  wall  that  they  looked  like  a  bat 
relief  in  the  Hall  of  Fame. 

"Padilla,"  said  the  flushed  and  irate  First  Citizen,  his  voice 
trembling  with  discretion,  "this  man  is  keeping  up  a  dogie 
and  refuses  to  account  for  it,  defying  the  inspector  and  the 

Board.     Arres " 

"Yait!  Steady  in  the  boat!"  Mid-word  the  Slick  One 
stopped,  at  the  sharp  command. 

Cat-quick,  Steve  was  on  his  feet;  his  right  hand  was  in  his 
coat-pocket.  He  stood  up  to  the  man  of  many  dignities. 
There  was  a  slight  clicking  sound  in  the  pocket.  The  Boss 


142  WEST    IS    WEST 

noted  in  this  pocket  a  Shape  under  the  cloth,  which  held 
coat  and  pocket  cocked  up  at  a  noticeable  angle;  so  that  the 
end  of  this  obscure  Shape  pointed  fixedly  at  the  second  but 
ton  of  the  Commissionarial  vest — the  very  vest  in  which  New 
Mexico  had  reposed  so  long.  On  this  Shape  the  Boss  fixed 
his  eyes,  fascinated,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  hypnotize  him 
self;  the  color  faded  from  his  cheeks. 

"You  will  sit  down,  Sheriff.  No  contributory  negligence, 
if  you  please!"  said  Steve  quietly,  without  glancing  his  way 
or  moving  a  muscle.  "And  the  rest  of  you  do  like  Asher  did — 
abide  in  your  breeches." 

It  was  the  decisive  moment — and  Steve  had  used  well- 
timed  diplomacy  after  all.  For  Sheriff  Padilla  was  not  with 
out  a  certain  low  form  of  courage — rather,  an  insensate  lack 
of  fear.  Had  the  coat  pocket  been  turned  his  way  he  would 
have  accepted  the  challenge  without  hesitation.  As  it  was, 
he  obeyed,  bewildered.  His  slow  mind  was  not  equal  to  the 
problem,  and  he  had  no  instructions. 

"I  have  applied  the  Referendum  to  your  laws.  As  you  see, 
I  have  the  Initiative  on  you  also,"  said  Steve  cheerfully. 
"And  now  I  must  ask  you  to  make  me  out  a  receipt  in  full 
for  my  taxes.  Like  the  man  in  the  Bible,  because  of  my  op 
portunity  you  will  give  it  to  me — or  else  send  for  the  absent 
official,  who  really  is  indispensable  to  such  a  gathering.  I 
wonder  at  your  lack  of  foresight  in  not  bringing  him  at  first." 
Now,  all  the  officials  were  there  present  except  one — the 
Coroner.  The  allusion  was  not  lost;  the  receipt  was  made 
out  in  hasty  silence.  With  his  left  hand  Steve  threw  the 
bundle  of  scalps  on  the  desk. 

"And  now,  gentlemen,"  he  said  politely,  "you  may  not  be 
aware  of  the  fact,  but  you  have  in  your  midst,  in  my  humble 
person,  the  Boy  Orator  of  the  Rio  Grande,  the  only  original 
silver-tongued  siren  from  Cibola,  the  Reformer  of  the  Rockies, 
the  Patriot  of  the  Prairies,  the  Man  behind  the  Muck  Rake — 
old  Vox  Populi  himself.  I  am  sorely  tempted  to  deliver  my 
address  on  Agriculture,  with  special  reference  to  Graft  and 
Grafting.  I  refrain.  I  won't  go  into  details — not  now.  But 
I've  simply  got  to  declare  myself  on  a  few  purely  general 
propositions. 

"Dearly  beloved!     You  can  borrow  money  in  the  East  for 


BELL-THE-CAT  143 

less  than  the  New  Mexico  tax-rate.  We  have  the  highest  tax 
in  America,  four  per  cent.  Add  the  special  levy  of  six 
mills  and  you  gave  a  grand  total  of  nearly  five  cents,  or  one 
big  nickel  out  of  each  and  every  dollar.  In  effect,  every  bit 
of  property  is  borrowed,  mortgaged  to  a  few  hundred  office 
holders  and  no  show  to  ever  pay  it  off.  So  the  more  you  have 
the  more  you  owe.  Such  a  tax  rate  puts  a  premium  on  per 
jury.  Your  friends  get  off  at  a  nominal  sum,  with  a  tip  to 
the  Assessor,  who  sells  himself  to  the  railroads.  The  rest 
of  us  have  our  choice — pay  or  perjury.  If  all  paid  alike  the 
tax  need  not  be  over  one  per  cent.  In  return  you  give  us 
some  fair  schools — nothing  else.  What  justice  and  order  we 
have  is  mostly  home-made,  and  you  build  us  neither  roads  nor 
bridges.  Most  all  the  money  goes  into  your  pockets,  either 
in  fees  or  graft.  You  get  the  taxes  for  levyin'  and  collectin* 
'em.  The  last  treasurer  in  this  county  was  thirty  thousand 
dollars  short  in  his  accounts  and  settled  for  eighteen  thou 
sand.  Everybody  satisfied,  and  his  bondsmen  not  one  penny. 
No  New  Mexico  bondsman  has  ever  had  to  make  good  one 
red,  round  copper  cent.  Your  laws  would  impugn  the  fair 
name  of  Blackwell's  Island,  cast  doubts  on  the  mentality  of 
a  madhouse.  You  bribe  your  way  into  office,  and  graft  to 
pay  the  bribes.  Our  taxes  and  office  holders  hold  us  back 
more  than  all  other  causes  combined.  It's  goin'  to  be  stopped, 
short,  never  to  go  again — now!  You've  had  your  little  brief 
authority,  and  to  use  the  words  of  a  good,  large  man,  are 
about  to  subside  into  innocuous  desuetude.  You  have  my 
views,  gentlemen.  Good  day!  Come  down  with  me  J.  H.," 
he  said  to  the  Easy  Boss.  "Want  to  see  you  a  minute.  I'll 
send  back  the  seven  dollars  and  thirty-six  cents  by  you.  I 
owe  that  to  the  county,  fair  and  square,  and  I  never  chip- 
Tacked  yet."  He  motioned  through  the  door  with  that  sin 
gularly  rigid  pocket. 

"Let's  go  over  to  the  shade,"  suggested  Steve,  in  the  hall. 
He  led  the  way  to  a  seat  on  the  courthouse  plaza,  in  full 
Tiew  of  the  Collector's  window,  from  which  officialdom  looked 
down  with  interest. 

Slowly  Steve  extracted  his  hand  from  the  coat  pocket,  draw 
ing  forth — a  pipe  and  a  metal  match  case.  Carefully  turn 
ing  the  pocket  wrong  side  out,  he  scraped  from  the  corners 


144  WEST    IS    WEST 

a  pipeful  of  loose  tobacco.  He  opened  the  match  case  with 
a  slight  clicking  sound. 

"I  will  be  damned!"  gasped  the  Foremost  Citizen,  half  in 
a  whisper,  his  eyes  popping  out  of  his  head. 

"Doubtless,"  said  Steve  placidly,  applying  the  match  behind 
steady,  sheltering  hands. 

"Held  up!"  said  the  Easy  Boss.  "Bluffed!— Territory, 
County,  Sanitary  Board  and  old  Santiago  Padilla  with  six 
notches  in  his  gun — held  up  by  a  smooth-faced  kid  and  a 
bad-smelling  pipe !  Man,  you're  a  world-beater !  I  must  have 
you  on  my  side." 

Steve  stood  up;  his  eyes  were  stern,  his  voice  playful  no 
longer.  "I'm  no  man's  man — and  I'm  on  my  side  every  time. 
Your  side?  You  have  no  side !  You're  a  Boss  without  a  party 
right  now.  You  lost  your  alee.  You've  been  admired  as  a 
smooth,  successful  rascal,  but  even  folks  that  like  rascals 
despise  a  crawfish.  Tray,  Blanche  and  Sweetheart,  they 
nip  your  calves  after  this.  The  frontier  won't  stand  for  a 
man  who  needs  them  pink  pills  for  pale  people!  You're  a 
Belled  Cat!" 

That  is  how  Steve  won  his  third  name — what  he  calls  his 
Nom-de-gush — when  the  tale  was  whispered  along  until  it 
came  to  the  ears  of  the  Chautaqua  bunch.  In  the  cow- 
countries  he  is  still  Wildcat  Thompson,  but  in  political  and 
legal  circles  he  is  known  as  "Bell-the-Cat," 


THE  FOOL'S   HEART 

CHAPTER  XIII 

DOUBLE-DARE 

"VAN  ATTA  !  Huh !"  snarled  old  man  Gibson,  quarrelsome 
drunk,  swaying  in  the  saddle,  smiting  his  thigh  with  enormous 
hand.  "Fine  haired  Philadelphy  dude.  Payin'  lease  money  on 
his  cattle  on  the  Forest  Reserve !  Payin'  taxes  on  every  one  of 
'em!  Hires  a  foreman  to  run  his  stuff,  while  he  loafs  in 
Albuquerque  or  in  El  Paso  half  the  time,  or  tinkers  around 
in  his  little  old  mines  the  other  half.  Jines  a  club  in  Al 
buquerque  and  another  in  Silver  City.  Builds  houses  for  his 
cow-camps — lumber  houses — painted!'' 

Keough  hated  him;  loud,  boastful,  ribald,  blasphemous,  his 
voice  suited  with  his  huge  and  brutal  bulk.  Keough  mentally 
contrasted  this  shabby,  repulsive,  boisterous  boor  with  Van's 
well-groomed,  slender  figure,  his  alert  and  breezy  wit,  his 
sunny  charm.  He  was  heartily  sorry  that  Gibson  had  over 
taken  him.  However,  San  Clemente  was  in  sight. 

"To  cap  all,  builds  a  fancy  two-story  house  up  in  the  Re 
serve,  twenty  miles  from  a  neighbor.  Shootin-box !  Saint's 
Rest!  Oh,  hell! — Sanitary  plumbin',  billiard  table,  nigger 
cook,  chiny  dishes,  private  'phone  to  town,  hardwood  floors, 
bath-room  and  books!  Wagon  load  of  four-eyes  out  every 
little  bit  to  admire  the  mountains.  Won't  shoot  a  deer  out  o* 
season !" 

Keough  made  no  answer  to  this  tirade;  no  retort  occurring 
to  him  save  the  obvious  but  impracticable  one  of  bending  a 
gun  over  Gibson's  head — a  reasonless,  pig-brained,  dangerous 
man,  best  humored.  He  burbled  on,  garrulous,  boastful,  in 
decently  offensive. 

145 


146  WEST    IS   WEST 

"Now  look  at  me.  Sold  more'n  twelve  hundred  steers  at 
Ridgepole  yisterday — and  broke  the  monte  bank  last  night 
/  got  money.  I  always  got  money.  Do  I  go  blowin'  myself? 
Do  I  give  up  my  dough  for  baseball  teams  and  to  build  Opery 
houses?  No  Sir-ee!  I  got  a  little  log  cabin  at  the  Berenda  for 
storms,  and  to  keep  chuck  in — but  I  sleep  under  a  tarp  on  the 
ground,  I  eat  beef  and  beans  and  bread  and  coffee,  I  do  two 
men's  work,  and  I  keep  my  outfit  humpin'  the  year  around — 
barrin'  a  little  natcherel  relaxation,  as  now.  The  boys  has 
orders  to  be  out  to  the  ranch  soon  in  the  mornin',  drunk  or 
sober. 

"Then  again — do  I  put  my  money  in  the  bank  outer  morbid 
curiosity  to  see  if  they'll  give  it  back?  Or  so's  they'll  give 
me  a  measly  five  per  cent,  while  they're  gettin'  ten?"  His 
little,  covetuous  eyes  glittered  in  his  bloated  face.  "I  cashes 
my  steer-check,  quits  town  before  I  git  too  full,  I  leaves  the 
Berenda  to-morrow  evenin',  and  I  hit  the  trail.  I'll  have 
my  wad  loaned  out  to  certain  parties  in  Hanover,  drawin'  my 
little  old  twelve  per  cent.,  and  security  so  good  that  I  sure 
hopes  they  don't  pay." 

Keough  stole  a  furtive  glance.  "Aren't  you  taking  a  big 
risk  to  carry  so  much  money  with  you?" 

Gibson  showed  his  yellow  fangs  in  an  ugly  laugh.  "I  got 
my  guns.  Mighty  few  wants  to  tackle  old  Elmer.  Besides, 
who  knows?  Just  you — and  you  ain't  got  the  nerve.  I  give 
you  lief  to  try  it.  Double-dare  you!"  He  snorted  contemp 
tuously.  "The  bank  don't  know  but  what  I  loan  it  out  right 
here  in  town,  like  I  done  last  year.  Nobody  else  knows  but 
what  I  lef  it  in  the  bank.  Just  you  and  me — and  you're 
too  chicken-hearted!  You'd  like  to,  but  you  dasn't.  You're 
chalk-white  now.  Thinkin'  about  it,  be  ye?  Too  chicken- 
hearted!  Yah!" 

Keough's  eyes  fell  to  hide  their  hate — and  fear.  To  hide, 
perhaps,  some  sudden  ominous  thought.  His  nose  twitched 
and  dented  with  his  effort  to  control  his  uneven  breath.  In 
the  dents  the  white  and  red  came  by  turns. 

"Not  that  you're  any  better'n  I  be.  If  you  had  the  nerve 
you'd  be  wuss  You're  slick  and  sleek  and  smooth,  and  if  it 
wan't  for  them  black  eyebrows  grown  together  clean  across 
your  face,  and  that  dinted  nose  where  the  devil  grabbed  you, 


DOUBLE-DARE  147 

you'd  be  a  good  looker.  You  won't  get  drunk  nor  gamble,  you 
herd  with  the  swell  bunch,  and  all  that.  But  it  ain't  that 
you  want  to  be  white.  /  know  ye.  You  just  want  to  be 
thought  white!" 

Keough  winced.  The  thick  eyebrows  showed  sinister  against 
his  bloodless  face,  a  disfiguring  brand:  the  nose  dented  as 
with  the  visible  finger-prints  of  a  fiend. 

Moody  and  sullen,  Keough  went  to  his  room  and  flung  him 
self  on  his  bed.  His  affairs  were  in  a  bad  way.  His  Tele 
phone  Exchange  yielded  fair  returns,  only  to  be  lost  in  dis- 
asterous  ventures.  He  had  dipped  heavily  in  town  property, 
at  Hillsboro,  a  hundred  miles  to  the  south.  But  the  spur  of 
railroad  from  Deming,  because  of  which  he  had  thought 
to  profit,  had  built  no  further  than  Lake  Valley,  and  Hills 
boro  values  had  steadily  declined.  Eaten  by  envy,  ambition, 
intense  longing  for  ease  and  luxury,  he  was  not  willing  to 
wait  the  slow  upbuilding  of  safe  business.  The  hills  were 
richly,  though  erratically,  strewn  with  mineral.  He  tried 
placer  mining,  to  lose  heavily;  while  Gibson,  a  gunshot  away, 
reaped  golden  harvests. 

Last,  after  long  observation  of  production,  he  sacrificed  his 
Hillsboro  holdings  to  acquire  a  half  interest  in  the  Golden 
Fleece  mine — Van  Atta  buying  the  other  half.  For  a  few 
months  their  shipments  made  a  handsome  showing.  Then  the 
pay  streak  dwindled.  It  did  not  pay  expenses  again. 
Keough's  telephone  profits  were  swallowed  regularly;  all  he 
could  rake  and  scrape  beside.  Still  the  deficit  grew.  Finally 
Van  Atta  had  loaned  him  five  thousand  dollars,  and  put  in  a 
like  amount  as  his  own  share  for  a  last  attempt  to  recover 
their  losings.  The  recent  disaster  in  the  mine  had  gone  far 
to  wipe  out  this  money.  Ruin  stared  Keough  in  the  face. 

Why?  he  questioned  bitterly,  in  a  dull  glow  of  murderous 
rage.  Why  should  he,  of  good  family,  good  habits,  education, 
brains,  always  lose  ?  Gibson — drunkard,  gambler,  bully,  igno 
rant,  stupid,  coarse  in  every  fibre  and  instinct — Gibson,  by 
some  devil's  luck,  prospered  in  whatever  he  touched.  .  .  . 
Keough  hated  himself,  he  hated  this  insolent  Midas-monster 
who  tempted  him,  scorned  him.  heaped  him  with  insults. 

He  thought  of  the  money  Gibson  would  draw,  of  the  lonely 
ranch  at  the  Berenda.  If  it  could  be  done!  What  was  the 


148  WEST    IS    WEST 

life  of  such  a  loathsome  beast  to  him?  .  .  .  He  pictured  it 
out.  Not  a  hold-up.  Gibson's  surly  courage  and  sinister 
quickness  were  too  well  known.  Death !  .  .  .  In  a  dozen 
ways,  in  a  dozen  places,  he  waylaid  him,  shot  him  down,  set  his 
heel  on  the  brutal,  sneering  face.  "Chicken-hearted^  am  I?" 

.  .  .  Other  visions  came  thronging  thick  and  fast,  horrible, 
appalling.  He  was  seen,  pursued,  overtaken.  Or,  escaping, 
unseen,  rumor,  suspicion,  the  falling  away  of  his  fellows — 
arrest,  questioning,  the  piling  up  of  damning  evidence,  con 
viction — confession,  the  scaffold !  .  .  .  The  beaded  sweat  stood 
out  on  his  brow.  Too  risky! 

"Hello,  Central!     Am  Mistah  Keough  dere?" 

"Not  in  town." 

"Land's  sake !    When's  he  comin'  back?" 

"I'll  give  you  the  office.     Miss  Clayton'll  know." 

"Yas'm.  Please'm  .  .  .  "Hello!  Am  dis  Miss  Clayton? 
Please,  am  yer'  spectin'  Mistah  Waltah  back  sho'tly?" 

"Yes.     Who  is  it?" 

"Me?  Ise  de  cook  up  heah  at  Mistah  Van's  place,  de 
Saint's  Res'.  You  tell  Mistah  Waltah  ole  Snowball  was  axin 
for  him.  Tell  him — tell  him  when  is  he  gwinter  come  up 
heah?  'Cause  if  he's  comin'  up  dis  ebenin'  I'd  suah  lak  to  get 
ter  go  ovah  to  Gallinas  Haid.  The  Mexicans  gwine  ter  have 
a  big  baile  there.  He  was  'lowin'  to  be  up  heah  to-morrow 
anyhow,  and  Mistah  Van  he  was  comin'  ovah  from  de  mine. 
Tell  him  if  he's  comin'  now  kin  I  start  f'om  heah  'bout  sun 
down?  Cain't  leab  dis  place  alone  ve'y  long." 

"All  right.  I'll  ask  him,  when  he  comes,  and  let  you 
know." 

Keough  slammed  the  door  between  the  exchange  and  his 
private  office.  "Any  mail?"  he  snapped. 

Clara  Clayton,  his  book-keeper  and  chief  of  the  hello-girls, 
handed  him  the  letters.  "Anything  wrong,  Walter?"  Her 
hand  rested  timidly  on  his  arm. 

He  shook  her  off  roughly.  "Can't  you  leave  me  alone  ?  No, 
there's  nothing  wrong,  Walter — for  if  I  lose  my  last  dollar 
I'll  always  have  you  left?" 

The  girl  bent  her  head  to  hide  tears  of  mortification. 


DOUBLE-DARE  149 

"Bah !  I  see  my  finish !"  Keough  tore  the  letters  to  strips. 
"Rats  leave  a  sinking  ship.  Best  follow  their  wise  example, 
my  girl." 

"Walter!  You  are  not  yourself,  or  you  could  never  hurt 
me  so!" 

It  was  his  true  self.  The  mask  of  courtesy,  of  manhood,  of 
honor,  slipped  aside:  the  naked  soul  stood  revealed  in  all  its 
hideous  baseness.  With  sneer  and  cruel  taunt  he  stabbed  her 
deep,  mocked  her  grief  with  shameful  savage  delight. 

"There's  young  Billy  Armstrong,  now — mighty  attentive  to 
you.  I've  kept  tab  on  him.  Why  not  marry  him?  Too  high- 
minded,  eh?  Nonsense!  What  the  eye  sees  not,  the  heart 
grieves  not." 

The  girl  rose  steadily.  No  appeal  for  her  own  welfare, 
her  own  happiness;  to  help,  defend,  uphold  him  in  his  weak-1 
ness,  to  serve  the  traitor  with  her  loyalty. 

"Walter,  your  troubles  are  killing  you,  crazing  you !  This 
once,  if  never  again,  be  guided  for  your  own  good!  This 
once,  if  never  again,  let  me  think  for  you!"  She  gave  him 
the  message  Van  Atta's  cook  had  left  for  him.  "Go  up  there 
to-night.  Get  away  from  it  all.  When  Van  Atta  comes,  talk 
it  over  with  him.  If  he  will  take  your  interest  in  settle 
ment — let  the  mine  go.  Then  ride,  hunt,  rest,  read,  sleep — 
till  you  are  yourself  again.  Come  back  and  be  a  man,  not  a 
quitter !  Begin  again ;  patiently,  bravely,  undiscouraged.  De 
feat  is  not  dishonor.  You  are  young,  strong,  able.  Build 
better  next  time.  You  must  take  a  rest,  Walter — you  must! 
You  are  breaking  down.  Go  to  Saint's  Rest,  and  get  this 
settled  and  over  with  before  you  lose  your  mind  with  worry 
ing.  Go  now — and  come  back  the  man  I  thought  you!" 

His  cheek  was  pale,  his  eye  was  wild,  his  hand  shook.  He 
stood  by  the  window,  drumming  the  pane  with  nervous 
fingers:  breathing  slowly,  laboriously,  through  pinched 
nostrils.  The  call  to  manhood,  to  honor,  passed  unheard,  un 
noted. — The  Berenda  was  eighteen  miles  to  the  Northwest, 
at  the  western  base  of  Pinetop  Mountain;  Saint's  Rest  was 
on  the  summit,  thirty  miles  to  the  Northeast,  both  in  the  lone 
liest  of  countries.  If  he  gave  permission,  Snowball  would  be 
gone,  there  would  be  no  one  at  Saint's  Rest.  It  was  two 
o'clock  now.  Once  beyond  the  forks  of  the  Percha,  there 


150  WEST    IS    WEST 

were  countless  trails.  He  could  go  to  the  Berenda,  unseen, 
back,  to  Saint's  Rest,  unseen!  It  could  be  done.  .  .  .  "Too 
chicken-hearted?"  Insolent  dog!  .  .  .  There  was  no  tim  • 
to  lose.  Gibson,  going  directly,  should  reach  the  Berenda  by 
sundown,  while  he  must  follow  the  canon  of  the  Percha  as  if 
going  to  Fan  Atta's. 

"I'll  do  it — I'll  go  now.  Call  up  the  darkey  and  tell  him 
I'll  be  there  by  seven.  He  needn't  wait.  I'm  sorry  I  was 
such  a  brute,  Clara.  I  am  half  crazy,  I  guess.  You're  a  good 
little  girl.  Now  I'll  hike  along,  pronto.  Give  me  a  kiss. 
Good-by!" 


CHAPTER    XIV 

CHICKEN-HEARTED 

So  hot  and  cold  he  was,  as  he  rode  up  the  valley  of  the 
Percha;  so  goaded  and  checked  and  torn  by  greed  and  fear 
and  hate;  so  sick  and  shaken  by  tumult  of  whirling  senses; 
that,  if  his  drawings  back  had  been  due  to  any  promptings 
of  mercy,  if  there  had  been  one  fickle  impulse,  however  fleet 
ing,  to  spare  the  wretched  creature  whose  doom  he  planned, 
he  might  almost  have  been  pitied. 

But,  his  hesitation  was  for  himself  alone.  There  was  no 
shrinking  from  the  bloody  deed  itself;  only  fear  of  mishap, 
detection.  He  had  no  more  compassion  for  Gibson  than  for 
a  worm  he  might  crush. 

Men  there  have  been,  most  wicked,  most  shame-stained,  yet 
with  some  wild  touch  of  generosity,  of  loyalty,  of  unshrink 
ing  courage,  that,  despite  their  crimes,  has  won  them  grudging 
admiration;  yes,  even  love  and  tears.  Never,  where  the  final 
blight  of  utter  selfishness  has  fallen. 

Keough  would  and  would  not.  The  thing  was  impossible; 
it  was  foolishly  simple:  Gibson  should  die,  Gibson  might  live 
to  dotage  for  all  his  meddling.  Even  if  he  were  unseen,  his 
horse  would  be  sweaty,  guant,  travel-worn.  Questioned,  how 
would  he  account  for  that?  The  chills  ran  down  his  spine. 
Too  risky!  He  came  to  the  Forks,  he  passed  by  the  fatal 
trail  to  Berenda.  What  was  it  Clara  had  said?  To  begin 
over  again — A  bitter  pill! — But  perhaps  that  was  best. — He 
heard  the  patter  of  hoof-beats,  he  looked  up.  Johnny  Cox 
came  riding  down  the  Burley  trail:  and  Johnny  Cox  rode 
his  pet  horse.  .  .  .  The  quick  fiend  whispered  counsel; 
the  white  dents  came  and  went  with  the  fierce  beating  of 
Keough's  heart. 

151 


152  WEST    IS    WEST 

"Hello,  John!    How's  Burley?" 

"Dead.     Which  way?" 

"Van  Atta's.  Hunt,  rest  up,  general  good  time.  Come 
along?" 

"Can't.  Coin'  down  to  San  Clemente  to  shape  my  horse 
for  a  race." 

The  black  brows  raised  scoffingly. 

"That  old  cow?  He's  so  fat  he  can  hardly  waddle.  This 
one  I'm  riding  can  beat  him  half  a  mile,  right  here  and  now." 

"What  color  is  your  money,"  inquired  Johnny,  lightly. 

"O,  I  mean  business,"  said  Keough.  "Wait  till  I  get  this 
load  of  clothes  off  my  saddle."  He  untied  the  bundle 
wrapped  in  his  slicker — (which  contained,  not  clothes,  but  a 
lineman's  test-set,  for  use  in  construction  or  repair  work, 
pliers,  a  pair  of  high-heeled  boots,  such  as  cowboys  wear,  and 
a  tightly  covered  can).  "We  can  take  a  lap-and-tap  start 
from  that  big  dead  juniper.  Here's  the  judge  and  stake 
holder."  He  emptied  a  tobacco  pouch  and  dropped  in  two 
gold  pieces.  "Put  in  your  money  and  hang  it  on  that  bush. 
The  first  man  that  gets  to  it,  keeps  it." 

"You're  on!"  said  John.     "But  it's  a  shame  to  take  it." 

A  little  later,  Johnny  Cox,  many  yards  in  the  lead,  grabbed 
the  pouch,  flourished  it  derisively,  and  passed  on  his  way  in 
a  cloud  of  dust. 

Keough  was  out  twenty  dollars — but  his  horse  was  in  a 
lather  of  blameless  sweat.  Questioned,  Johnny  would  bear 
him  out:  bear  witness  too  that  he  had  passed  far  beyond  the 
Forks  on  his  way  to  Saint's  Rest.  From  here  on,  no  one  but 
strangers  followed  the  winding  valley  road.  If  any  one  else 
came  down — why,  they  had  missed  each  other  in  the  broken 
hills  and  ridges.  He  hesitated  no  longer.  Fate  was  playing 
in  his  hands.  Taking  up  his  bundle,  he  turned  leftward 
through  the  brush:  towards  the  Berenda  trail. 

At  sunset  he  was  riding  up  the  winding  pebbly  bottom  of 
the  dry  Berenda,  that  he  might  leave  no  sign.  Hiding  the 
horse  in  a  clump  of  black  willow,  he  removed  his  shoes  and 
pulled  on  the  boots  he  carried  in  his  bundle:  stepping  from 
stone  to  stone  till  he  reached  the  wagon-road  from  White 
water.  The  house  was  now  nearby.  He  walked  up  boldly 
and  shouted.  No  answer.  Had  there  been  anyone  there, 


CHICKEN-HEARTED  153 

had  he  met  anyone  before,  he  had  a  tale  ready  of  cow-thieves 
seen,  warning  to  give.  He  crouched  behind  a  box  near  the 
door.  He  must  not  shoot  Gibson  in  the  body;  he  might  spoil 
the  bills.  It  seemed  ages  to  Keough,  waiting  in  the  deepening 
dusk;  but  it  was  not  really  long.  Bellowing  a  maudlin  song, 
Gibson  rode  up,  unsaddled,  led  his  horse  to  the  pasture  and 
slapped  his  neck ;  not  unkindly. 

"Get  fat,  you  old  sun-of-a-gun !  You've  had  a  purty  hard 
lay.  One  month  off  for  you.  Pull  your  freight!  G'  long,  y' 
old  fool!  I  aint  got  no  corn  for  ye." 

Turning  the  corner,  Keough's  gun  was  almost  at  Gibson's 
ear.  He  fired  twice.  Unflinching,  he  completed  his  fearful 
errand.  Unflinching,  he  dragged  the  body  to  the  back  of  the 
house. 

"Chicken-hearted,  am  I?  Damn  you!'* 

The  ten  miles  back  to  the  Percha  were  made  in  an  hour; 
the  boots  hidden  by  the  way.  He  crossed  the  wagon-road, 
toiled  up  the  rough  black  mesa  beyond,  came  at  last  to  the 
Saint's  Rest  telephone  line,  where  it  steepled-jacked  the 
shortest  way  across  the  hills.  He  climbed  the  pole  and 
bridged  the  test  set  to  the  wire. 

"Hello,  Central  !.  .  .  That  you,  Clara?  .  .  .  Well,  I  got 
here.  .  .  .  No,  just  come.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  rode  slow.  Clara, 
you'll  find  a  letter  in  my  desk  from  John  Murray,  at  Deming. 
Wants  work  at  the  mine.  Forgot  to  answer  it,  and  he's  an  old 
friend.  Wish  you'd  write  him.  Tell  him  he'd  better  not  come. 
Like  as  not,  we'll  shut  down  in  a  few  weeks.  Clara,  don't 
call  me  up  any  more  to-night  for  anything.  I'm  dead  beat 
and  going  right  to  bed.  Good-night,  little  girl.  .  .  .  Yes. 
Good-night!" 

He  took  off  the  test  set  and  climbed  up  the  scarred  and 
shaly  hillside  to  a  ragged  and  shattered  cliff.  Here  he  hid  it. 

Behind  a  boulder  he  kindled  a  tiny  fire.  He  looked  at  his 
watch.  Nearly  eight.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  he  counted 
Gibson's  money.  .  .  .  Seventeen  thousand  dollars — nine 
hundred  steers  at  fifteen  dollars,  plus  the  winnings  at  monte. 
1VI ore  than  Keough  had  expected.  Dropping  the  pocket  book  in 
the  fire,  he  put  the  money  in  the  can,  and  thrust  it  deep  into 
a  crevice;  carefully  marking  the  spot. 


154  WEST    IS   WEST 

His  skirts  were  clear  now.  He  was  on  record  as  having 
telephoned  from  Saint's  Rest  at  eight  o'clock.  He  rode 
swiftly  up  the  line.  But  one  risk  remained — of  vague 
suspicion  only — if  any  one  should  happen  into  Saint's  Rest 
before  him.  He  had  a  story  ready.  His  horse,  falling,  had 
got  away,  had  tried  to  go  back  to  town,  long  declining  to  be 
caught.  Besides,  why  should  anyone  suspect  him? 

He  felt  neither  terror  nor  remorse.  He  was  all  right  now 
— safe,  self-possessed,  rich,  happy.  What  years  of  striving, 
industry,  self-denial  had  failed  to  do,  a  bold  stroke  had  won 
in  an  hour.  He  urged  his  horse  on  through  the  night. 


CHAPTER   XV 

A    KNOCKING   AT   THE    GATE 

COMING  on  such  a  house,  in  such  a  place,  unexpectedly,  Tait 
was  startled  to  wakefulness.  It  loomed  above  him  in  the  clear 
starlight,  quiet  and  still. 

Under  the  broad  portico  the  shadows  were  deep.  Knock 
ing  smartly,  he  struck  his  knuckles  on  the  bronze  bell-pull. 
Groping,  his  fingers  closed  around  it. 

"Oh,  hell!"  he  said,  scornfully.  "And  I  plumb  forgot  to 
bring  my  cyard-case.  Here  goes !" 

Mellow  and  sonorous  came  the  answered  peal,  long-echoing, 
rippling  to  silence.  He  rang  again,  more  vigorously.  He 
led  his  horse  to  the  open  stable,  not  unsaddling,  and  threw 
him  some  hay.  He  returned  with  the  deliberate  intention  of 
breaking  in;  partly  that  he  was  honestly  hungry,  more  that 
he  was  hungrily  dishonest.  His  predatory  nose  scented  rich 
pickings. 

Long  since,  Tait  had  learned  that  locked  and  bolted  doors 
are  no  indication  of  a  house  securely  closed.  This  was  no 
exception.  The  third  window  yielded  without  resistance.  He 
found  himself  in  the  kitchen. 

Once  inside,  his  prowling  instincts  mastered  his  hunger. 
Lighting  a  lamp,  with  a  perfunctory  clutch  at  the  good  things 
in  the  pantry,  he  began  a  tour  of  inspection,  munching  by 
the  way. 

Passing  through  at  the  dining  room,  he  stood  in  a  great 
central  hall,  evidently  at  once  library,  smoking  room  and 
living  place  in  general.  Seven  doors  gave  in  to  it;  the  outer 
door  in  front,  one  in  the  rear,  the  door  to  the  dining  room  by 
which  he  had  just  entered,  one  beyond  the  fireplace,  and 
three  in  the  further  side.  Of  these,  the  two  next  the  front 
were  hung  with  rich  Oriental  portieres  of  dark  red.  A  heavy 

155 


156  WEST    IS    WEST 

rug  matching  these  hanging  in  color  took  up  the  central 
space,  eked  out  at  either  end  by  thick  and  gorgeous  Navajo 
blankets,  which  Tait  viewed  with  proprietary  interest. 

On  his  right  was  a  tiled  fireplace,  flanked  by  low,  oaken 
bookshelves.  Two  broad  tables,  littered  with  periodicals,  ash 
trays,  pipes,  matches  and  such  small  comforts,  were  over 
hung  by  a  four-light  chandelier,  and  surrounded  by  a  mis 
cellany  of  rockers  and  various  lounging-chairs.  All  these,  the 
college  and  fraternity  emblems,  prints,  etchings,  the  steins 
on  the  mantel,  the  crossed  rapiers  and  buck's  head  above, 
Tait  viewed  with  contemptuous  dissatisfaction. 

He  raised  his  lamp.  Facing  him,  a  loitering  flight  of  steps 
made  short  and  easy  way  to  a  wide,  low  landing  in  the  corner ; 
turning,  as  a  hanging  stairway,  took  on  the  dignity  of  carven 
balustrade,  rose  in  leisurely  slope  athwart  the  entire  back  of 
the  hall  to  a  second  landing,  paused  for  breath,  turned  left 
ward  again  with  a  last  resolute  and  stately  scramble,  and 
gained  the  second  ,;  ;ory  directly  over  Tait's  head. 

Under  this  stair  ,.j_.  was  a  single  door.  Tait  peered  in.  It 
was  a  well-appointecl  bath-room.  Drawing  back,  he  threw  an 
ironic  glance  at  the  staircase.  "Humph!"  he  grunted.  "Won 
der  they  don't  have  an  elevator." 

Retracing  his  steps,  he  passed  the  fire-place  with  a  sneer 
for  the  divan's  luxurious  cushions,  the  ribboned  mandolin 
dropped  from  a  careless  hand;  opened  the  remaining  door  on 
the  fire-place  side ;  into  a  billiard  room,  floor  and  walls 
adorned  with  trophies  of  the  chase.  There  was  a  gun  rack, 
too,  of  which  Tait  made  note  for  future  reference. 

Crossing  the  hall,  he  pushed  aside  the  curtains.  Bedrooms 
both;  in  each  a  silver  candlestick  met  his  approval.  Also,  he 
would  here  replenish  his  wardrobe  later.  The  last  room  on 
the  ground  floor,  at  the  stair-foot,  was  fitted  out  as  an  office, 
with  a  telephone,  a  small  safe,  a  desk,  beyond,  a  shelf  of  bulky 
account  books. 

Tait  moistened  his  lips.  His  eyes  glistened.  His  cupidity 
was  now  thoroughly  aroused.  If  the  safe  was  furnished  to 
harmonize  with  the  house — if  he  could  open  it !  But  how  ?  He 
was  a  man  of  varied  industry,  but  this  was  beyond  him.  He 
rummaged  the  desk  hastily.  Nothing  of  value  save  a  jewelled 


A   KNOCKING   AT    THE    GATE     157 

stiletto,  evidently  used  to  open  letters.  He  thrust  it  in  his 
pocket.  If  he  could  only  open  that  safe! 

Hark! 

He  blew  out  the  light.  Some  one  galloped  up  the  road; 
dismounted,  ran  up  the  steps;  a  key  turned  in  the  front  door! 
Tait  cursed  himself  viciously.  If  he  had  been  quicker — if  he 
had  only  been  found  in  the  kitchen!  The  New  Mexican  re 
gards  leniently  the  informalities  prompted  by  hunger.  But 
in  the  office?  Tait  drew  his  gun. 

"You,  Sambo!  Hey!  Hello-o!"  called  a  clear  and  joyous 
voice.  Jingle  of  spurred  heels  came  down  the  hall.  "Why, 
where  is  that  damn  lazy  darkey?  If  he's  gone,  I'll  fire  him 
as  sure  as  my  name's  Jim  Van  Atta !" 

A  match  crackled:  a  finger  of  light  pierced  the  keyhole  to 
Tait.  The  footsteps  came  nearer.  Tait  cocked  his  gun.  But 
wait!  Why  should  this  Van  Atta  come  straight  to  the  of 
fice,  first  of  all?  Why  indeed,  except  that  he  had  money  or 
valuables  to  put  in  the  safe?  Let  him  once  open  that! — Tait 
crouched  down  between  desk  and  wall,  under  the  shelf. 

Van  Atta  placed  his  lamp  on  the  safe  and  took  down  the 
receiver.  His  back  was  to  Tait.  The  light  showed  his  good- 
humored,  clean-cut  profile,  the  boyish  smile. 

"Hello,  Central!  ...  Is  Walter  there?  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  . 
Yes,  it's  me.  .  .  .  Yes,  I'm  at  Saint's  Rest.  Is  that  you,  Miss 
Clayton?  .  .  .  Up  here?  .  .  .  You're  sure  Walter  'phoned 
from  here?  .  .  .  Oh,  well,  he  may  be  upstairs  asleep,  but  I 
doubt  it.  I've  just  come,  but  I've  made  noise  enough  to  wake 
the  dead,  yelling  for  that  infernal  darkey.  .  .  .  Gone  to  a 
dance?  I'll  dance  him!" 

Noiselessly,  Tait  let  down  the  cocked  hammer  of  his  re 
volver.  He  slipped  the  gun  back  into  his  belt,  and  drew  the 
stiletto.  It  was  barely  possible  that  a  sound  sleeper  had  not 
been  awakened, — but  a  shot? 

"Oh,  Walter's  all  right,  Miss  Clayton.  Don't  be  alarmed. 
Something  may  have  happened  that  took  him  back  to  town. 
Maybe  he's  left  a  note.  If  he  comes  back,  tell  him  to  ask 
Charlie  White  for  good  news.  White  left  the  mine  for  San 
Clemente  just  as  I  started  here.  Well,  I'll  look  upstairs  to 
see  if  Keough's  taking  a  Rip  Van  Winkle.  I've  got  something 


158  WEST    IS    WEST 

to  wake  him  up.  Gold!  Bed  tick  full  of  gold.  If  I  find 
him,  or  if  he  left  any  word,  I'll  let  you  know.  Good-by!" 

He  hung  up  the  receiver.  Turning,  his  eye  fell  on  the 
kitchen  lamp  and  the  slight  disorder  of  his  desk.  He  took 
a  step  forward — and  Tait  was  upon  him,  stabbing  and  slash 
ing.  Van  Atta  fought  back  savagely  and  fell  with  no  outcry. 
It  was  a  matter  of  seconds. 

Tait  rose  to  his  feet  and  flung  away  the  dagger.  The 
savage  ferocity  died  from  his  face,  left  it  haggard,  horror- 
smitten.  With  light  and  gun  he  tiptoed  on  a  hasty  search  up 
stairs.  He  found  no  one. 

He  came  back  and  stared  stupidly  at  his  bloody  work,  clasp 
ing  his  head  between  his  hands,  "I  wisht  he  was  alive!"  he 
said  soberly.  "I'd  better  'a'  served  a  term.  Oh  God,  I  wisht 
he  was  alive !"  Wild  beast  as  he  was,  he  could  hardly  nerve 
himself  to  search  his  victim.  In  the  dead  man's  bill-book  he 
found  a  very  moderate  amount  of  money  and  a  promissory 
note  in  Van  Atta's  favor  for  five  thousand  dollars,  signed  by 
Walter  Keough;  nothing  more. 

"Zing-g!   Zing-g-g!" 

Tait  leaped  to  his  feet,  gun  in  hand,  eyes  glaring,  gasping 
for  breath,  hair  on  end.  The  telephone !  There  had  been  an 
axe  in  the  kitchen.  He  rushed  to  get  it;  he  slashed  the 
wires;  afterwards,  in  a  burst  of  insensate  fury,  he  smashed 
the  box  to  splinters. 

Then,  in  the  dining  room,  a  silvery-toned  French  clock  beat 
the  hour,  with  slow  and  measured  chime.  One,  Two,  Three, 
Four,  Five,  Six,  Seven,  Eight,  Nine,  Ten!  Tait  could  bear 
no  more,  the  harmless  clock  sounded  like  the  bells  of  doom. 
He  fled  through  the  kitchen,  he  blew  out  the  light,  he  climbed 
out  of  his  yet  unclosed  window  and  fled  for  his  horse.  And 
as  he  reached  the  stable  a  second  horseman  trotted  briskly 
through  the  yard  gate. 

At  San  Clemente,  just  after  ten,  little  Miss  Clayton  ran 
across  the  street  to  the  hotel  office,  where  Emil  James  was 
reading  up  the  news  of  the  last  month. 

"Oh,  Mr.  James!"  she  cried,  "There's  something  wrong  at 
Saint's  Rest — something  dreadful!" 

"Out  o'  sugar?"  suggested  Emil,  laying  down  his  paper. 


A   KNOCKING   AT   THE    GATE    159 

"Don't!  Walter  talked  to  me  over  the  line  at  eight.  Jus? 
now  Mr.  Van  Atta  'phoned  down — and  Walter  wasn't  there. 
Mr.  Van  thought  maybe  he  was  up-stairs  asleep,  and  said  he'd 
call  me  up.  When  he  didn't,  I  rang  again  and  again  and 
could  get  no  answer.  Won't  you  go  up  for  me  and  see  about 
it?" 

"Maybe  the  wire's  down — tree  fallen  on  it,  or  something," 
said  Emil  reassuringly.  "Or  else — yes,  that  will  be  it.  I've 
got  it  all  figured  out  now.  Charley  White  just  got  in  from 
Malibu,  half  an  hour  ago.  Says  they  made  the  biggest  kind 
of  a  strike  in  the  Golden  Fleece  last  night.  Rock  all  shot  full 
of  raw  gold.  That  explosion  last  spring  was  the  making  of 
them.  They  made  the  strike  in  the  new  ventilator  shaft  they're 
driving.  I  reckon  maybe  some  one  has  rode  over  and  told 
Keough,  and  he's  lit  out  for  the  mines." 

"No,  no!  Mr.  Van  Atta  said  over  the  'phone  he  left  the 
mine  just  as  Charlie  did.  If  anyone  had  gone  before,  Van 
would  have  known  it.  You  don't  understand.  It  isn't  just 
this — it's  this  on  top  of  a  lot  of  other  things.  Walter  has  been 
losing  a  great  deal  of  money;  the  worry  of  it  was  breaking 
him  down.  He  has  been  so  strange  and — different.  Oh,  I'm 
afraid !  Do  go,  Mr.  James.  Go  as  a  favor  to  me.  I'm 
afraid !" 

"So  you  think  Walter — "Emil  checked  himself  and  looked 
down  his  long  nose.  "Perhaps  I'd  better  go.  There'll  be 
some  simple  explanation,  likely.  I'll  take  young  Watterson 
and  we'll  follow  the  telephone  line.  Run  and  call  up  Van 
Atta  again  while  we  saddle.  Maybe  you'll  get  him  this  time. 
We'll  be  ready  in  a  jiffy.  And,  say,  Miss  Clayton,"  he  added 
awkwardly,  "I'd — I'd  brace  up,  you  know.  The  better  class 
of  San  Clemente  folks  is  some  gossipy.  Run  along.  I'll  do 
my  best  for  you." 


CHAPTER    XVI 

THE    TRAITORS 

RESTING  his  gun  on  the  stall  partition,  his  free  hand  on 
his  horse's  nostrils  to  prevent  betrayal,  Tait  waited.  His 
momentary  panic  had  passed.  With  the  call  to  action  all  his 
evil  courage  came  back  to  him.  The  newcomer  turned  his 
horse  into  the  pasture,  unlocked  the  kitchen  door,  and  lit 
up.  Tait  heard  him  making  a  fire,  drawing  water.  Next 
came  the  grinding  of  coffee  in  the  mill,  clatter  of  pans,  a 
whistling  refrain.  The  horse  in  the  pasture  hung  near  the 
gate,  whinnying. 

Daring  and  hardened  ruffian  as  he  was,  Tait's  overwrought 
nerves  could  not  endure  the  strain  of  waiting.  If  he  could 
slip  away  unheard,  well  and  good.  If  not,  he  would  ask  a 
night's  lodging  as  a  chance  traveller,  and,  luring  the  new  man 
into  the  hall,  shoot  him  by  the  office  door,  with  disposal  of 
weapons  and  bodies  to  indicate  that  the  two  men  had  killed 
each  other.  Anything  was  better  than  longer  suspense. 

To  reach  the  gate,  he  must  pass  the  light  streaming  from 
the  kitchen  window.  He  came  softly,  slowly,  his  hand  still  on 
his  horse's  nose.  He  was  almost  to  the  light  when  the  loose 
horse  in  the  pasture  made  loud  and  vehement  call.  The 
whistling  stopped  abruptly.  The  man  in  the  kitchen  was 
listening — watching,  perhaps.  Time  for  stealth  was  past. 
Releasing  his  own  horse  to  shrill  answer,  Tait  gave  the  word 
of  the  Hungry  Stranger. 

"Hello,  the  house!" 

"Hello!"  It  was  a  startled  voice.  The  door  was  jerked 
open;  a  broad  shaft  of  light  leaped  into  the  night;  a  man  in 
shirt  sleeves  appeared  in  the  doorway.  "Who  is  it?" 

Tait  walked  briskly  up  the  path  of  light. 

160 


THE    TRAITORS  161 

"A  stranger.     Kin  I  git  a  bite  to  eat?" 

"You  certainly  can,"  said  Keough,  pleasantly.  This  was 
the  one  thing  needful  to  establish  his  alibi  beyond  a  doubt. 
"All  of  that.  I  was  just  stirring  up  a  large  lunch  for  myself. 
Put  your  horse  in  the  pasture.  Devilish  glad  to  see  you.  I've 
been  here  alone  all  night." 

"Oh,  have  you,  then?"  thought  Tait.  At  this  prompt  and 
gratuitous  falsehood  he  suspended  his  first  plan  and  decided 
to  await  developments.  "Why — no,  thank  you.  Ill  be  going 
on;  unless  you  need  a  cow-hand?  Mr.  Van  Atta,  isn't  it?" 

"Mr.  Van  Atta's  not  here.  I  don't  think  he  wants  to  hire 
anyone.  Keough  is  my  name." 

Keough !  The  name  on  that  promissory  note  was  Walter 
Keough !  Tait  could  almost  see  his  way. 

"Then  I'll  just  jog  along  to  San  Clemente  after  I  chew 
some.  Pleasanter  riding  at  night  anyhow — and  I  want  to 
get  work  somewheres.  Half  out  o'  money.  But  if  you  could 
give  my  horse  a  bait  of  corn?" 

The  horse  fed,  Keough  bustled  deftly  about  the  supper; 
eyeing  the  cowboy  curiously.  A  bold,  reckless  face,  a  fierce, 
hard,  dangerous  face,  thought  Keough :  a  face  almost  indictable 
of  itself.  If  only — the  pulsing  white  dents  came  and  went! 
Why  not?  The  evil  thought  shaped  and  grew. 

"Do  you  know  the  Berenda  ranch?"  he  inquired  evenly. 

"Gibson's  home  ranch?     Yes." 

"They  shipped  from  Ridgepole  yesterday,"  said  Keough 
smoothly,  "and  were  to  start  out  home  to-day.  Some  of  the 
boys'll  stay  in  town  on  a  spree,  most  likely,  so  there'll  be  a 
good  chance  for  you  to  hook  on,  if  you're  on  hand  at  the 
Berenda  to-morrow  morning." 

"The  very  thing."  With  swift  thought,  Tait  ran  over  the 
possibilities.  To  leave  this  man  here,  alive,  and  run  away 
himself,  was  to  proclaim  his  own  guilt.  But  if  he  went 
straight  to  the  Berenda  and  told  a  straightforward  tale  of 
finding  Keough  here,  and  of  being  directed  by  him  to  Gibson's, 
Keough  himself  would  bear  him  out.  His  own  course  would 
be  that  of  straightforward,  unsuspecting  innocence.  That  he 
had  killed  Van  Atta,  got  away,  returned,  eaten  almost  in  the 
next  room,  and  then  gone  straight  to  Gibson's  without  any 
attempt  at  flight  or  concealment — no  one  on  earth  would  ever 


162  WEST    IS    WEST 

believe  that.  By  the  same  token,  he  must  give  his  right  name. 
For  he  was  a  known  man  further  west,  in  the  San  Quentin 
country,  as  would  certainly  be  brought  out  at  the  inquiry. 

"I'm  much  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Keough.  Tait  is  my  name — 
Bill  Tait.  Humble  is  my  station.  When  my  hat  is  on,  I'm 
home,  and  the  Berenda's  my  destination — where  I'll  be  before 
daylight.  And  I  guess  I'll  wash  my  hands  and  face  a  whole 
lot." 

Hunger  was  Tait's  role,  though  every  morsel  was  swallowed 
by  supreme  effort  of  his  will.  But  Keough  ate  at  his  ease, 
daintly  indeed,  but  with  thorough  enjoyment. 

A  strange  meal,  that !  Perhaps  there  was  never  a  stranger. 
The  two  smiling,  guilty  men,  feigning  goodwill  and  cheerful 
ness;  the  deadly,  violent  ruffian,  and  the  supple,  crafty 
schemer;  each,  not  willingly,  driven  to  audacious  hidden  irony, 
to  shape  and  bend  his  every  phrase  to  bravado  of  dreadful 
after-meaning;  each  mercilessly  betraying  the  other  to  shame 
and  death;  each  exulting  in  his  own  shrewdness  and  cunning; 
each  irrevocably  lost! 

The  meal  over,  Keough  led  the  way  to  the  hall,  lit  the 
chandelier  lamps,  and  produced  wine,  glasses,  cigars. 

"A  glass  with  you,  Mr.  Tait.  Then  make  yourself  com 
fortable  and  excuse  me  a  few  moments.  I'm  going  to  bathe, 
and  I  must  build  up  the  kitchen  fire  to  keep  the  water-front 
heating."  He  raised  his  glass.  "Here's  to  our  better 
acquaintance !" 

"Drink  hearty!" 

"Now  help  yourself  to  cigars  and  more  wine  when  you 
want  it."  He  went  into  one  of  the  curtained  rooms,  return 
ing  with  slippers,  underclothing,  and  a  bathrobe.  These 
he  spread  before  the  fire,  now  cracking  merrily. 

Tait  held  his  hands  to  the  blaze.  "Looks  comfortable,  even 
if  it  aint  cold,"  he  commented.  "Not  but  what  it's  a  leetle 
mite  chilly,  for  all  it  was  warm  enough  to-day,  before  I 
climbed  up  in  the  pine  country.  You  are  sure  some  high  up 
in  the  air.  Must  be  eight  thousand  feet,  I  reckon?" 

"All  of  that.  San  Clemente  is  five  thousand.  You  better 
change  your  mind  and  stay  all  night." 

Tait  was  firm  on  this  point.  "I  know  a  short  cut 
across  the  hills.  Was  through  this  country  four  or  five  year 


THE    TRAITORS  163 

ago.     'T won't  take  me  long  to  get  to  the  Berenda.     Make  it 
before  day." 

Keough  did  not  urge  him.  It  was  not  absolutely  necessary 
to  sacrifice  this  man,  but  after  all,  it  was  safer  to  have  him 
for  a  scapegoat.  That  would  leave  himself  beyond  even  the 
possibility  of  suspicion. 

"I've  got  to  bring  in  some  wood/'  said  Keough.  "That 
trifling  nigger  should  have  filled  the  box."  He  stepped  in  the 
bath  room,  tried  the  taps,  poked  up  the  kitchen  fire,  and  ran 
out  to  the  woodshed. 

Meanwhile,  the  destined  scapegoat  had  been  planning  on 
his  own  account,  much  to  the  purpose.  As  the  door  closed, 
he  summoned  all  his  desperate  hardihood,  leaped  up,  snatched 
at  dressing  gown  and  slippers,  and  flung  open  the  office  door. 
Swiftly,  shuddering,  but  resolute,  he  pressed  the  slipper  soles, 
very  lightly,  in  the  thin  edge  of  the  clotted  blood;  sprinkled, 
with  the  dagger,  a  few  drops  on  the  dressing  gown;  closed 
the  door,  replaced  everything  by  the  fire  as  it  was ;  and  hur 
riedly  slipped  the  folded  promissory  note  in  an  inner  pocket 
of  the  gown. 

He  shivered.  His  lips  were  parched.  He  gulped  down  a 
glass  of  wine  and  relit  his  cigar.  Keough  found  him  poking 
thoughtfully  at  the  fire. 

Tait  turned.  "Well,  the  best  of  friends  must  part,  and 
you'll  be  wantin*  to  take  your  bath.  So  here's  where  I  do 
a  go.  Much  obliged  to  you,  sir!" 

"Don't  mention  it,"  smiled  Keough.  "You  can  return  it  in 
kind,  sometime."  He  refilled  the  glasses.  "To  our  next 
happy  meeting!" 

"Sweet  dreams!"  said  Tait.  The  glasses  clinked  together. 
As  Tait  mounted,  Keough  held  out  his  hand,  "I  wish  you 
luck  at  Berenda,  Mr.  Tait.  I'll  see  you  again?" 

"Quien  Sabe!"  Tait  shrugged  his  shoulders.   "Good-night!" 

"Good-night!" 

Was  there  no  vision  of  that  next  awful  meeting — at  a 
gallows  foot?  Where  one  should  cringe  and  tremble,  where 
one  should  mock? 


CHAPTER    XVII 

KEOUOH   OPENS  A   DOOR 

BATHED  and  dressed,  Keough  pulled  the  divan  by  the  fire, 
lit  a  cigar,  and  stretched  his  legs  luxuriously. 

Complacently,  he  passed  the  day's  events  in  review;  noth 
ing  to  wish  improved.  He  felt  a  wondering  admiration  for  his 
own  resourceful  subtlety.  Regret,  remorse,  were  no  part  of 
his  thoughts.  If,  by  raising  his  hand,  the  black  and  treacher 
ous  deed  might  have  been  undone,  he  would  not  have  raised  it. 
He  was  absolutely  safe. 

Now  for  the  future.  Cautious — he  must  be  doubly  cautious ! 
Whatever  chanced,  the  buried  money  must  not  be  used  for 
years.  He  would  pretend  to  be  in  desperate  straits,  would 
delay  payments  right  and  left.  If  the  mine  did  no  better,  he 
would  beg  Van  Atta  for  leniency.  If  necessary,  he  would  give 
up  his  telephone  property  on  the  note.  Or,  better  still,  give 
up  his  share  of  the  mine.  The  Golden  Fleece  had  been  a  good 
producer  for  years  before  it  came  into  his  hands.  As  such,  it 
would  always  have  a  certain  value,  as  the  lost  vein  might  be 
found  any  day.  Van  Atta  was  a  good  fellow.  Besides,  it 
was  at  his  urging  that  Keough  had  plunged  so  deeply.  Van 
would  remember  that.  Or  could  be  reminded  of  it. 

After  a  year — better,  two  or  three — he  could  begin  on  the 
Gibson  money,  adding  it,  a  very  little  at  a  time,  to  his  savings. 
Vulgar  criminals  were  always  caught  because  they  made  dis 
play  of  their  money.  He  was  too  smart  for  that.  He  would 
exercise  self-restraint. 

He  laughed  aloud.  It  was  odd  to  reflect  that  he  really  was 
a  criminal.  Well !  A  murderer,  then !  It  was  as  well  to  look 
the  matter  in  the  face  once  for  all,  before  forgetting  it.  Yet 
till  to-day — (yesterday,  it  was  past  midnight  now) — he  had 
kept  well  within  the  law. 

164 


KEOUGH   OPENS   A   DOOR       165 

A  passing  thought  of  Clara  Clayton  came  to  him.  He  put 
it  by  with  annoyance.  Not  good  enough  for  him — now. 
Sometime,  when  he  could  take  his  proper  place  in  society,  he 
would  marry  a  girl  with  money  and  connections.  There  were 
good  catches  even  in  San  Clemente,  among  that  swell  bunch. 
Violet  Armstrong,  now — mighty  good  looker.  Or  perhaps  that 
new  girl,  Violet's  eastern  cousin.  Nonsense!  Vi  would  prob 
ably  be  married  and  the  black-haired  cousin  gone  back  home, 
long  before  he  would  dare  to  blossom  out  with  his  new  wealth. 
Caution,  again  and  again — that  must  be  his  part. 

He  thought  of  Tait  with  amusement.  Rising,  he  washed  up 
and  put  away  a  careful  half  of  the  dishes  they  had  used. 
Unless  Tait  chanced  to  find — that — when  he  first  arrived,  he 
would  sleep  late  after  his  night's  ride.  Gibson's  men  would 
probably  get  in  to  the  Berenda  between  eight  and  nine  in  the 
morning.  They  would  find — that — and  ride  a  narrow  circle 
for  a  sign;  finding  only  Tait's  trail,  thanks  to  Keough's  fore 
sight.  Accused,  Tait  would  naturally  tell  of  his  visit  to 
Saint's  Rest,  the  meeting  with  Keough.  If  he,  Keough,  re 
spectable,  unquestioned,  denied  it — what  chance  would  Tait 
have? 

The  fire  was  pleasantly  bright  and  cheerful;  he  was  not 
sleepy.  Tossing  off  a  glass  of  wine,  he  took  a  volume  of 
Malory  from  the  shelves,  and  settled  himself  comfortably. 

Even  now,  all  blood-guilty  as  he  was,  if  there  had  been 
any  relenting  toward  the  helpless  wretch — (innocent,  so  far 
as  Keough  knew) — whom  he  had  sent  through  the  night  to 
shameful  death;  if,  even  now,  he  had  purposed  to  keep  faith 
with  the  poor  girl  whose  fault  lay  in  trusting  him;  again — 
knowing  what  awful  thing  lay  beyond  the  door — he  might 
almost  have  been  pitied.  Safe,  warm,  untroubled,  he  almost 
purred  in  his  content. — What  was  that? 

He  stood  up,  his  face  blanched,  his  heart  beat  furious  and 
fast.  A  horse  was  coming — two !  Footsteps  on  the  walk ; 
the  door-bell's  warm  and  mellow  peal. 

Keough  turned  the  latch.  "Come  in!  Emil,  is  it?  And 
Colonel  Watterson,  Junior?"  He  smiled  a  welcome.  "Well, 
this  is  good  luck.  Where'd  you  blow  in  from?" 

"And  here  you  are,  all  safe  and  sound,"  said  Emil.  "That's 
too  bad." 


166  WEST    IS    WEST 

"Safe?  Of  course — why  shouldn't  I  be  safe?"  Keough 
was  easy  now.  That  Gibson  was  already  found,  the  alarm 
given  and  that  suspicion  fallen  on  him  so  soon — impossible ! 
This  was  some  chance  errand  only. 

The  rescuers,  a  little  sheepish  at  having  made  a  hard  ride 
for  nothing,  advanced  to  the  fire. 

"Why,  we  thought  maybe  something  had  happened  to  you; 
Miss  Clayton  couldn't  get  an  answer  over  the  'phone/'  said 
Emil  apologetically.  "She  was  worried  about  you." 

Keough  blazed  in  sudden  wrath.  So  it  was  this  girl's 
officiousness  that  had  caused  him  such  a  fright,  and  might 
have  ruined  him. 

"Why,  I  charged  her  particularly  not  to  call  me  upon  any 
pretext!"  he  said  indignantly.  The  tell-tale  marks  on  his 
nose  showed  white  against  his  flaming  face.  "I'm  worn  out, 
dead  beat,  going  broke — and  I  came  up  here  to  get  away 
from  it  all." 

"You  see,  Van  Atta "  began  John  Sayles ;  but  Emil  trod 

on  his  toes.  Keough's  perturbation  at  the  door,  the  forced  note 
of  his  welcome,  had  not  escaped  Emil.  This  burst  of  un 
reasoning  anger  in  no  way  lulled  his  suspicions. 

"Van  Atta,"  he  explained,  suavely,  "he  struck  pay  ore  in 
your  little  old  mine  yesterday — big  rich — dead  oodles  of  it. 
Charlie  White  brought  the  news,  and  Miss  Clayton  thought 
you  might  be  interested." 

"Rich  ore!"  Keough  paled  again.  Why  could  it  not  have 
been  a  day  earlier?  For  the  first  time  he  regretted  the 
murder:  as  needless  risk  and  exertion.  "The  wire  must  be 
down,"  he  said,  relieved.  If  that  was  all ! 

("Now  that's  queer/'  thought  Emil.  "If  Van  Atta's  been 
here  and  told  him,  why  doesn't  he  say  so?  If  not,  why 
doesn't  he  express,  state  and  declare  some  slight  emotion  at 
them  hilarious  tidings  of  great  joy?  He  was  down  on  his 
luck  good  and  plenty  just  now.")  Aloud  he  said  carelessly: 
"Anyone  been  here?" 

Almost  imperceptibly,  Keough  hesitated.  His  boundless  ego 
tism  decided  him;  merciless,  traitor  and  coward  to  the  end, 
he  cut  away  his  one  slender  chance  with  a  heartless  lie.  If 
only  to  spare  himself  such  ugly  moments  as  this,  Tait, 
riding  through  the  night,  must  be  riding  to  the  scaffold.  He 


KEOUGH   OPENS    A   DOOR       167 

would  not  breathe  freely  till  the  man  was  hung  for  Gibson's 
murder. 

"Not  a  soul." 

"Hands  up!" 

Emil's  gun  was  in  his  face.  "Up  with  them!  Go  through 
him,  John  Sayles." 

"No  guns/'  reported  John  Sayles. 

"All  right.    Watch  him,  while  I  look  into  things." 

"Damn  you!  What's  this  for?  How  dare  you  hold  me  up 
this  way?"  shouted  Keough.  His  anger  was  not  unmixed  with 
fear,  though  the  proceedings  seemed  to  have  no  reference  to 
Gibson. 

"What  for?"  Emil  scratched  the  side  of  his  long  nose. 
"Really,  I  hardly  know,"  he  said,  honestly.  "Let's  call  it 
general  results  and  let  it  go  at  that.  Anyhow,  I  dare,  all 
right.  Don't  let  that  part  trouble  you.  There's  an  air  of 
general  mystery  and  blind-man's-bluff  about  this  night's  doin's 
that's  simply  displeasin'  to  my  straightforward  mind.  You 
telephone  to  Miss  Clayton  from  here  at  eight  o'clock.  Now 
you  say  no  one  has  been  here.  But  Jim  Van  Atta  'phoned 
from  here  about  ten.  Something  wrong!" 

Van  Atta !  In  Keough's  shrunken  face  the  broad,  black 
brows  seemed,  more  than  ever,  a  disfiguring  scar:  on  the 
pinched  nose  the  white  blotches  came  and  went.  A  plausible 
lie  framed  itself  instantly.  If  Van  Atta  had  been  here  and 
gone — why,  then  Keough  found  the  pasture  gate  open,  had 
ridden  the  pasture  over  to  see  it  any  saddle  horses  were 
missing.  Nothing  more  natural.  He  felt  a  pride  in  his  keen 
and  ready  intelligence.  Was  that  all?  Van  Atta  had  doubt 
less  gone  to  town.  Emil,  taking  a  different  trail,  had  not  met 
him.  In  some  degree  he  regained  his  composure. 

"You'll  regret  this   outrage!" 

"Maybe  I  will.  But  you'll  never  regret  anything  if  you 
make  any  break.  Keough !  Keough !"  cried  Emil,  turning  back. 
"I  hope  I  do  regret  it.  I  hope  to  God  I  do!  But  there's 
something  wrong!  It's  in  the  air.  Your  face,  your  hands, 
every  word,  all  your  actions,  confess  it  and  proclaim  it.  I 
don't  know  what  you're  hiding  but  we're  goin'  to  clear  it  up/* 

Keough  sneered.  He  was  fully  reassured.  "You  are  making 
a  tempest  in  a  teapot.  You  got  yourself  all  worked  up  and 


168  WEST    IS    WEST 

made  a  silly  gunplay.  Of  course  it  disconcerted  me.  I'm  no 
devil-may-care  desperado,  and  I  never  claimed  to  be  one. 
When  you  stick  a  gun  under  my  nose,  it  naturally  startles  me. 
Seeing  that  I'm  startled,  you  give  your  imagination  full  play, 
and  scare  yourself.  Come  down  to  earth!  Let's  find  out 
what  you  accuse  me  of,  at  least,  before  you  find  me  guilty  and 
hang  me.  Van  may  be  in  town  by  now.  Let's  try  the  'phone 
again." 

He  opened  the  office  door. 


CROOKNOSE 

CHAPTER    XVIII 

PASS    OF    THE    NORTH 

FROM  the  first  the  brown  river  had  edged  stealthily  west 
ward  with  an  eye  to  Guaymas,  keeping  within  the  bounds  set 
by  mountain  walls,  a  few  hours  to  right  or  left,  but  all  the 
while  slyly  waiting  an  unguarded  moment  for  breaking 
through  to  the  Bacific,  along  the  path  of  the  Yaqui  River.  A 
trifle  more  of  westing,  to  leave  a  few  puny  hills  to  the  left, 
and  the  thing  had  been  done — the  Rio  Grande  had  slipped 
by  the  barrier  and  so  southeast  across  Yaqui  country.  But 
from  those  insignificant  hills  reached  out  a  finger  of  inexor 
able  rock,  hidden  and  nameless  as  the  cause  that  makes  you 
that  which  you  are.  Therefore,  at  Donahue's  the  Rio  Grande 
is  turned  snarling  to  the  east,  to  gnaw  and  carve  a  way 
through  three  great  mountain  ranges  to  the  Mexican  Sea. 

And  here  is  a  curious  thing.  There  are  no  islands  in  the 
Rio  Grande — save  one.  That  one  is  precisely  at  Donahue's, 
where  a  stubborn  Californian  branch  bears  westward  about 
Greenhorn  Island,  a  minority  report:  to  creep  back  at  last, 
thwarted,  sullen  and  slow.  It  may  be  chance — but  in  that  land 
of  happy  names,  there  is  no  name  for  this  short,  unstoried 
stream;  as  if  men  kept  for  that  baffled  hope  the  silence  due 
to  grief. 

Below  Greenhorn  the  river  whips  sharply  east,  impatient 
of  further  delay.  Always  a  twisty  and  squirmy  stream,  for 
the  next  day's  journey  it  writhes  and  threshes  like  a  python 
in  death  agony.  It  breaks  through  Caballo  Mountains  at 
Rincon,  cuts  the  valley  slantingly  across  the  desert,  nearing 
the  eastward  range  at  the  proper  chisel-angle;  and  so  chisels 
through  at  El  Paso  del  Norte. 

169 


170  WEST    IS    WEST 

El  Paso,  being  translated,  means  The  Pass.  Seven  great 
railways  crowd  to  this  gateway.  Transcontinental  passengers 
stop  off  here.  They  cross  the  bridge  to  Juarez;  thereafter 
saying,  complacently,  "When  I  was  in  Mexico." 

The  native  of  New  York  City,  it  is  said — by  natives  of 
New  York  City — is  quiet,  prudent  and  economical.  Wicked 
ness  and  waste  are  provided  for,  and  by,  transients  from  Wich 
ita,  Paducah,  Zanesville.  It  is  even  so  with  El  Paso,  which  is 
New  York's  closest  rival  for  the  crown  of  naughtiness.  The 
true  El  Paso  nature  is  singularly  domestic  and  sedate;  the 
attractions  are  for  the  transients.  So  it  is  said. 

That  is  as  it  may  be.  The  attractions  draw  more  transients, 
right  enough ;  which  creates  a  demand  for  more  attractions ; 
which  come,  drawing  more  transients ;  and  so  on,  ad  libertine. 
For  the  same  causes,  El  Paso's  police  force,  man  for  man, 
fears  no  comparisons. 

"Say,  you,  crooknose !"  said  Gannon.  "What  are  you  hang 
ing  around  this  corner  for?" 

Crooknose  turned  slow,  gray  eyes  for  better  regard  of 
Officer  Gannon:  otherwise  holding  his  negligent  attitude 
against  the  wall,  his  hands  resting  on  the  stone  quoins. 

"For  safety,  Bullneck.     Because  you're  here." 

Now  Bullneck  was  the  older  and  larger  man,  but  the  gray 
eyes  held  the  effect  of  looking  down  in  kindly  banter  to  a 
favored  child. 

"Beat  it,  you,  or  I'll  run  you  in!" 

"That  will  be  interesting/'  said  Crooknose  politely. 

Gannon's  big  body  swayed,  but  his  feet  clung  to  the  pave 
ment.  Of  the  brown-faced  who  came  to  the  Pass  City,  there 
were  some  from  whom  pink-faced  men  had  no  profit  in  their 
dealings.  The  policeman  was  not  sorry  for  the  interruption, 
which  now  hurtled  around  the  corner. 

"Mart!     Mart  Gannon!     I've  been  robbed!" 

The  interruption  was  a  pretty  boy,  about  the  age  of  Crook- 
nose;  his  hat  was  smashed,  his  coat  torn,  his  cheek  bruised. 
Gannon  knew  him  for  an  office-man  at  the  smelter. 

"I  was  hanging  around  at  the  Jumbo,  just  looking  on.  Big 
boob  with  a  roll  and  a  jag,  buckin*  monte,  and  they  was 
dealing  seconds  on  him,  see?"  The  story  came  in  gurgly 


PASS    OF    THE    NORTH  171 

blobs,  like  water  from  a  full  keg.  "I  spots  a  chance  for  easy 
money,  so  I  crossed  him,  see?  It's  a  snap.  When  he  bets 
gold  on  the  cinco,  I'm  piking  silver  on  the  other  card,  and  so 
on  down  the  line,  see?  By  the  time  the  gink  gets  his  I'm 
sixty  to  the  good.  Goin'  downstairs,  two  guys  clatter  past 
me,  one  on  each  side.  They  grabs  me,  mashes  my  hat  over 
my  eyes,  they  frisks  me,  and  they  throws  me  out.  Lucky  I 
was  most  down.  See  where  they  tore  my  coat,  getting  my 
leather?" 

"Anybody  see  them?  Will  you  know  'em?  Can  you  swear 
to  'em?"  Thus  the  law's  majesty,  blaring. 

"Know  'em,  nothing!  Didn't  I  tell  you  they  mashes  me 
hat  over  me  lookers?  All  I  see  was  their  backs  as  they  beat 
it  upstairs.  I  don't  want  the  strong-arms  pulled — I  want  me 
dough,  ninety-five  bucks.  Thought  you  was  me  friend?" 

"Friend?  I  know  your  name's  Parker,  if  you  call  that 
bein'  a  friend.  Whacha  want  me  to  do,  you  sucker?  Arrest 
the  whole  block?  You  swear  out  a  warrant  and  produce  wit 
nesses,  or  else  you  clear  out  of  this.  By  your  own  say,  you're 
a  cheat,  a  piker,  a  squealer  and  a  chump.  Shack,  now!" 

"Does  the  concession  cover  that?"  Crooknose  left  his 
corner  to  put  the  query,  lightly,  carelessly.  "What  you  say 
of  friend  Snipes  is  eminently  correct.  You  have  a  happy 
knack  of  speech.  But  isn't  friend  Jumbo  a  little  on  the  hog? 
Winning  both  sides  of  one  bet — it  seems  almost  greedy.  Still, 
I  would  not  interfere,  if  they  hadn't  sent  two  men  to  get  it 
from  Snipes.  I  can't  forgive  that.  You'd  better  trot  along, 
Bullneck,  and  bring  it  here." 

"Bring  it?  Who'll  I  get  it  of?"  Bullneck  was  chocking- 
black,  but  that  cold,  gray  eye  chilled  him  to  the  bone. 

"Oh,  just  ask  the  house  for  it.  They'll  give  it  to  you. 
Ninety-five  dollars,  Snipes?  Well,  Bullneck,  you  bring  back 
— oh,  say,  sixty-five !  That  leaves  a  piece  of  money  to  split 
three  ways.  You  can  keep  all  of  the  thirty,  if  you  want  to, 
but  it  doesn't  pay  in  the  long  run — the  goose  and  the  golden 
egg,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  If  Jumbo  holds  back,  you 
might  mention  my  name — Crooknose — and  tell  'em  I'm  one  of 
the  grandest  little  collectors  now  at  large,  and  I'll  be  up 
presently.  Go  on  now,  and  get  it!" 

And  Gannon  got  it. 


172  WEST    IS   WEST 

"Snipes,"  said  Crooknose,  "let  me  put  you  wise  to  a  few 
things.  Don't  cross  the  sucker  bet  too  pointedly.  It's  bad 
form,  it  tips  the  game,  you'll  get  yourself  disliked.  Number 
two — keep  to  the  wall  on  dark  stairways;  it  is  a  sign  of  bad 
luck  to  have  a  stranger  on  each  side.  Thirdly,  this  is  no 
place  for  trundle-bed  trash.  Keep  out  of  this  part  of  town, 
unless  you  are  a  match  for  any  two  men." 

"Like  yourself?"  sneered  Gannon. 

"Exactly.     You  may  go  now,  Snipes." 

"Why — er — thank  you !"  blurted  Snipes.  "Can't  I  slip  you 
a  yellow-boy  for  yours  ?" 

"Me?  For  that,"  said  Crooknose  dispassionately.  "I  must 
give  you  another  steer."  A  quick  twist  of  the  collar  forced 
Snipes  about.  A  creditable  drop-kick  started  him  on  his  way: 
outraged  law  stood  by,  subdued. 

"So-long,  Bullneck!"  said  this  redresser  of  wrongs.  "I  got 
to  go  up  to  the  office." 


CHAPTER    XIX 

THE    DREAM-SHOP 

A  STIRRING  place,  the  great  world,  and  crowding  to  the  eye? 
San  Clemente,  a  month  away,  was  dimmed  in  Katie's  mind- 
The  best  was,  no  marvel  of  all  held  more  of  lure  than  he^ 
daily  task.  For  Katie  worked  in  a  dream-shop. 

Strong,  barbaric  colors,  blankets  of  Zuni  and  the  Navajo5 
basket-work  of  Pima,  Hopi  and  Apache,  pottery  of  old 
pueblos ;  these  drew  you  through  the  door  to  ruin  and  delight. 
Bead-work  and  moccasin  came  next,  quiver  and  belt  and  bow; 
then  all  that  the  desert  gives  of  quaint  and  rare:  cacti  of  cliff 
and  plain  and  hill,  flaunting,  flaming,  scarlet  or  crimson  or 
blood-red:  purple  maguey,  the  yucca's  white  and  waxen  bells 
— cousins,  these  two,  bearing  lance  and  wand;  and  poor  kin 
to  them,  sotol  and  bayonet  and  dagger,  spiked  and  bristling; 
richest  in  names  of  all  growing  things,  these  thorny  kindreds, 
strong-fibred,  stout-hearted. 

Beaten  copper,  filigree  of  delicate  silver  or  gold;  great  locks, 
hand-forged,  with  foot-long  keys,  from  churches  that  flourished 
and  fell  when  Cromwell  ruled  in  England;  petrified  wood, 
heaps  of  garnets,  carnelians,  agates,  turquoise ;  arrow-heads  of 
flint  or  obsidian;  quartz,  white  or  creamy;  skins  of  leopards, 
bear,  panther  and  wolf:  such  wonderwares  and  a  thousand 
more  the  dream-pedlar  had  brought  and  blended. 

A  curtained  archway  gave  on  a  posada  of  old  Spain,  fire 
place,  crane  and  turnspit,  groined  roof  and  mullioned  window. 
Here  you  dined  with  Quixote,  or  tasted  the  fare  of  a  later 
land,  weird  and  fiery  dishes — enchiladas,  chili-con-carne,  tor 
tillas,  dtole;  spiced  chocolate  or  milky  tizwin  for  drink,  corn- 
husk  cigarillos  for  the  devotee. 

It  was  the  lucky  girl  Katie  Quinn  found  herself,  blessing 

173 


174  WEST    IS    WEST 

the  day  that  brought  the  dream-pedlar  to  San  Clemente,  seek 
ing  jacinth  and  turquoise. 

Under  another  sky,  Kester,  the  dream-pedlar,  had  known 
Katie's  father — who  was  father  and  mother  too,  poor  girl. 
But  it  was  not  friendship  for  Tom  Quinn  which  brought  her 
the  chance  to  leave  the  lonely  hill  town,  though  Katie  thought 
so,  not  knowing  that  she  herself  brought  the  one  touch  the 
dream-shop  lacked;  midnight  hair  and  black-grey  eyes  and 
wild-rose  cheek,  against  Filipa's  flashing  and  stormy  loveli 
ness,  golden  Ruth,  and  porcelain  Hilda's  slender  and  flaxen 
fairness. 

There  had  been  one  not  so  well  pleased  with  Katie's 
fortune.  That  was  Billy  Boy.  So  Katie  thought  of  him — 
Billy  Murray. 

The  full  tide  of  her  fresh-hearted  youth  joyed  in  the 
splendor  and  flashing  lights.  Billy  Boy,  Tom  Quinn,  whist 
ling  home  down  the  trail,  San  Clemente  nestled  against  the 
hill-slope,  the  white  mines  far  above,  Ghost  Mountain  breast 
ing  the  golden  air — in  the  back  of  her  mind,  they  were  faint 
and  small  like  the  drowse  of  a  lone  bee  in  a  pulsing  noon. 

Katie  sold  basketry  and  ores  to  a  pink  and  white  young 
man  of  good  taste  and  an  infinity  of  leisure,  until  he  was  res 
cued  by  an  anxious  parent;  a  nice  old  gentleman  beggared 
himself  for  gems ;  and  after  him  came  a  silken  lady  with  a 
white  doglet. 

"That  cunning  little  toy  basket — yes,  I  want  that  for  a 
jewel-box.  How  much  for  this  perfectly  lovely  jade?  Oh, 
that's  too  high!  I  can't  afford  it — now.  This  lava  paper 
weight  is  charming.  I'll  take  that.  Oh,  I  did  want  those 
fire  opals  so  much !  But  I  suppose  I  can't  have  them.  Where 
did  you  say  Mr.  Kester  got  them?  Queretaro?  Oh,  no — 
Simapan.  Wait !  Ask  the  manager  if  he  will  please  put  them 
aside  till  my  husband  can  look  at  them.  Oh,  you  are  a  new 
girl  here — I  had  forgotten  that.  My  husband  is  Mr.  Julius 
Barron.  Perhaps  I  can  coax  him  to  buy  the  jade,  too.  What 
stone  is  that?  Girasol?  I  never  saw  one  like  it.  Now  let 
me  see;  the  red  and  black  jar  we  were  looking  at  and  the  Zuni 
scarf  and  the  antlers — that  will  be  all  for  to-day.  Send  a  mes 
senger  with  the  things  at  once.  The  manager  knows  the  house 
number.  My  change,  please." 


THE    DREAM    SHOP  175 

"Excuse  me,  madam,  but  the  goods  come  to  more  than  the 
twenty  dollars,"  said  Katie. 

"Twenty  dollars  ?  Why,  I  gave  you  a  fifty-dollar  note  when 
I  started  to  go,  after  I  first  looked  at  the  opals." 

"Your  pardon,  madam,  but  it  was  twenty  dollars  you  gave 
me.  See,  I  have  held  it  in  my  hand  all  the  time."  Katie's 
face  grew  pale. 

The  silken  lady  darted  a  terrible  glance  at  her.  "What's 
this  !  You  have  changed  it  for  another  bill.  You  are  a  thief !" 
Her  voice  rose.  "Call  the  manager !"  she  demanded  of  Filipa. 

"But,  Mrs.  Barron,  will  you  not  look  first?"  said  loyal 
Filipa.  "Thees  Katie  is  a  good  girl.  It  is  not  possible,  what 
you  say;  there  is  a  mistake." 

"I  tucked  a  fifty-dollar  bill  in  the  heel  of  my  glove  when 
I  left  Chaney's,  and  gave  it  to  this  swindler  to  pay  for  the 
scarf  and  the  jar.  Will  you  call  the  manager,  or  shall  I  have 
you  discharged,  too?"  Mrs.  Barron  passed  from  rage  to  tears. 

So  Katie  was  discharged.  At  the  clock  stroke  life  had  been 
sweet  and  sunny  and  bright  to  her ;  an  hour  found  her  shamed 
and  blackened.  Not  despairing;  her  spirit  rose  to  fight  against 
injustice.  Mr.  Kester  was  afar  in  Moqui-land;  she  would 
appeal  to  him.  He  would  not  believe  this  dreadful  thing  of 
her.  Meantime  poor  father  must  not  know — nor  Billy  Boy. 
She  remembered  an  employment  agency  in  the  next  block. 
There  she  gave  her  slender  qualifications  and  paid  the  fee. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear,"  said  a  pleasant  voice,  as  she 
gained  the  street;  "but  I  saw  you  go  into  the  agency.  I  had 
just  come  out,  and  I  cannot  resist  the  temptation  to  ask  you 
if  by  any  chance  you  do  typewriting?" 

Katie  looked  up  at  the  friendly  face. 

"No,  ma'am,  I  can't.  I  can't  do  anything  much.'*  She  was 
very  much  alone  and  hungering  for  a  friendly  face.  She 
wished  with  all  her  heart  that  it  was  closing  time  so  she  might 
talk  with  warm-hearted  Filipa. 

"Oh,  dear!  I'm  sorry.  I  was  so  in  hope  that  you  did. 
You'll  excuse  an  inquisitive  old  woman ;  but  you're  never  going 
to  do  housework — with  that  pretty  face?" 

"Not  yet — though  that  wouldn't  be  so  bad,  with  nice  people. 
I'm  trying  to  get  on  at  the  department  stores  first." 

"Any  experience?"     The  woman  walked  beside  her. 


176  WEST    IS    WEST 

"A  little — but  I  can't  bring  a  recommendation."  Katie's 
lips  quivered. 

"Trouble?  Child,  the  world  is  full  of  trouble."  Katie's 
eyes  were  brimming  now.  "There,  there!  Don't  cry,  dearie! 
Come  into  the  park  and  tell  me  about  it.  Maybe  I  can  help 
you.  I  have  no  daughter  of  my  own." 

She  was  kind;  she  was  neat  and  pleasant  to  the  eye;  her 
hair  was  graying;  Katie  was  young  and  unwarned.  "And  I 
have  no  mother,"  said  Katie;  and  told  her  short  story  simply. 

"There,  there!  It's  a  shame!"  said  the  auditor  warmly, 
when  the  story  was  done.  "And  you  think  this  Mr.  Kester  is 
a  just  man?" 

"He  knows  my  father — he  knows  I  couldn't  do  a  thing  like 
that!"  sobbed  Katie. 

The  woman  considered. 

"Let  me  see!  There  are  four  girls,  artists,  where  I  have 
my  rooms.  Studios — top  floor  and  north  light — that  sort  of 
thing.  But  they  room  there,  too.  They  hate  getting  their 
meals  at  restaurants.  Just  till  your  Mr.  Kester  comes  back, 
would  you  consider  being  a  play-housekeeper  for  them  ?  They 
have  been  talking  of  setting  up  a  kitchen  for  weeks  and  weeks. 
It  would  be  easier  than  to  be  a  beginner  in  department  stores. 
And  they  will  be  wanting  to  put  that  sparkling  face  of  yours 
on  canvas,  or  I  am  the  more  mistaken." 

Katie  dried  her  eyes. 

"I'll  try  it,  ma'am,  and  thank  you  for  all  your  goodness  to 
me." 

The  kind  lady  clapped  her  hands  to  applaud  this  decision. 

"That's  settled,  then!  Now  I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do: 
Two  of  the  girls  won't  be  home  to-night.  You  and  I  will 
dine  together  at  the  Plaza.  I'll  send  a  note  to  your  lodgings 
by  a  messenger  boy.  You  can  have  one  of  my  rooms  to-night 
and  we'll  make  arrangements  with  the  young  ladies  the  first 
thing  to-morrow.  Indeed,  I  will  be  asking  them  if  I  may  be 
one  of  their  family  myself.  Bless  me,  you  don't  even  know 
my  name !  I  am  Mrs.  Holden — Alice  Holden,  my  dear — and 
glad  this  once  that  I  was  born  swivel-tongued." 

That  is  how  and  why,  something  after  seven,  Katie  went 
with  Mrs.  Holden  to  a  street  she  had  never  seen,  turned  in  at 


THE   DREAM    SHOP  177 

a  doorway  near  the  corner  of  a  business  block,  climbed  two 
flights  of  stairs,  and  so  came  happily  into  a  great  hall,  very 
large  and  very  wide,  running  the  full  length  of  the  building: 
a  hall  of  warm,  wide  rugs  and  cushioned  chairs  and  glowing 
bulbs,  with  a  broad  skylight  over  the  central  space.  Under 
the  skylight  a  mountain  lion's  hide  was  spread;  on  the  oppo 
site  wall  was  a  pair  of  splendid  antlers. 

"Now  you  make  yourself  at  home  here,  dearie,"  said  Katie's 
benefactor,  showing  her  to  a  cozy  and  comfortable  room,  "while 
I  run  out  and  ask  about  the  young  ladies.  I  won't  be  half  an 
hour." 

"If  you  please,"  said  Katie  timidly,  "might  I  write  to  Mr. 
Kester  while  you're  gone?" 

The  kind  lady  opened  a  desk. 

"There  you  are — pen,  paper,  stamps — everything.  I'll  be 
right  back." 

While  Katie  wrote,  Mrs.  Julius  Barron  found  the  missing 
fifty-dollar  bill  in  her  wristbag. 

The  Holden  woman  tapped  at  the  door  at  the  end  of  the 
hall.  It  was  answered  by  a  flashily  dressed  man  with  a  mean 
and  cruel  face. 

"There's  a  country  girl  in  my  room,  Ikey.  See  that  she 
doesn't  get  away  while  I  do  some  telephoning." 

So  Ikey  lolled  in  a  chair  near  the  stairhead.  Before  the 
first  cigarette  was  smoked  to  a  stub,  three  men,  loathsome  and 
vicious,  came  puffing  up  the  stairs. 

"Well!  Curly?  Blink?  Ratty?  What  is  this,  anyway— a 
reunion  of  the  Thug  family?"  demanded  Ikey,  scowling. 

"Yes,  and  more  coming — hear  *em?"  said  Blink.  "The 
cops  are  on  the  raid  bigger'n  a  wolf!  Man  got  croaked  at 
the  Midway — and  two  or  three  guys  lost  their  rolls  along  the 
line  and  put  up  a  holler.  The  push  is  comin'  here  to  duck. 
There's  never  been  any  rough  stuff  pulled  off  in  this  j  oint — the 
bulls  won't  look  here." 

"You  got  to  dump  your  gats,  then,"  said  Ikey  sulkily. 

"Mine  goes  to  the  discard,"  said  a  newcomer,  shivering. 
"There's  rangers  in  that  bunch.  They  go  too  strong  for  me. 
Me,  I  don't  need  no  gun." 


178  WEST    IS    WEST 

"Well,  I  do !"  growled  another,  pushing  up  the  stairs.  "Me 
gat  stays  right  wid  me — see?" 

These  sentiments  were  echoed  by  perhaps  a  third  of  the 
refugees.  They  were  the  dregs  of  infamy. 

"Oh,  well;  crowd  into  a  couple  o'  rooms,"  growled  Ikey. 
"I  can't  take  your  guns  off — but,  mind,  if  the  bulls  come  I 
hope  they  croak  you — see?" 

There  were  a  dozen  in  the  first  vermin  flight;  more  came 
later,  white-faced,  slinking. 

Katie  finished  the  letter.  Now  to  mail  it!  She  put  on  her 
hat  before  the  glass;  she  went  into  the  hall,  smiling;  she 
paused  by  the  lion's  hide  to  thrust  forgotten  hatpins  through 
her  coiling  hair.  Ikey  rose. 

"Where  you  goin',  missy?" 


CHAPTER   XX 

CHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT 

THE  "office"  was  exclusive  and  secluded.  The  Tivoli  pro 
vided  also  three  smaller  rooms  on  the  second  floor,  where 
pikers  could  lose  their  money  at  poker,  and  which  were  not 
above  using  boosters  to  start  a  game — or  above  anything  else 
except  the  saloon  on  the  street  floor. 

The  office  was  reserved  for  big  money.  It  was  on  the  third 
floor,  in  a  wide  and  well-furnished  room,  making  connection 
with  the  buffet  by  dumb-waiter  and  speaking-tube ;  and  it  zeal 
ously  fostered  a  profitable  reputation  for  fair-play. 

The  rest  of  the  floor  was  given  to  comfortable  bedrooms. 
Primarily,  these  were  for  employees;  but  auspicious  patrons 
of  the  office  could  always  find  a  bed  here,  and  breakfast  brought 
for  the  bell-ringing.  Curiously  enough,  robbing  patrons  while 
they  slept  was  not  permitted.  They  were  the  guests  of  the 
house.  The  Tivoli  was  not  such  a  place  as  the  Jumbo.  There 
are  degrees  in  hell,  report  says. 

When  you  went  broke  in  the  office,  the  house  staked  you  to 
carfare  and  settled  your  hotel  bills — without  your  asking, 
mind  you.  The  office  was  very  popular. 

This  was  when  the  town  was  wide  open.  All  is  changed 
now.  Gambling  is  stamped  out.  But  if  you  have  energy  and 
cash,  you  may  yet  get  action  by  guarded  queries  for  the  pass 
word,  being  sure  to  ask  the  right  person.  Any  person  will  do. 

Even  without  cheating — which  brings  up  that  Hamlet  thing 
again — the  Tivoli  was  a  dollar-mill.  The  kitty,  at  a  five-cent 
ante,  totted  to  twenty-four  dollars  daily  on  each  of  the  lesser 
tables.  In  the  office,  the  minimum  ante  was  a  quarter,  and 
there  was  no  maximum.  The  kitty  swelled  accordingly.  This 
without  counting  winnings  of  the  house-players,  which,  by 
their  greater  experience  and  judgment,  always  outbalanced 

179 


180  WEST   IS    WEST 

their  losings  in  any  considerable  length  of  time,  even  without 
top-hand  manipulation  or  "paper." 

At  roulette  the  percentage  in  favor  of  the  house  was  38  to 
36 — enough  to  break  any  player,  how  lucky  soever,  if  he 
played  long  enough;  and  so  on  down  the  long  line — Twenty- 
One,  Senate,  Stud,  Craps,  Seven-and-a-Half — all  of  which 
were  dealt  in  the  main  hall  on  the  second  floor.  On  monte  and 
faro,  dealt  straight,  the  percentage  for  the  game  is  negligible. 
Yet  one  lost  as  readily  and  steadily  here  as  elsewhere:  a  fact 
which  favors  reflection. 

On  the  whole,  losers  disapproved  of  cheating;  reasoning  that 
with  such  princely  revenues,  cheating  by  the  house  is  greedy 
and  ill-done.  They  are  encouraged  in  this  fallacy  by  the 
house:  none  is  so  loud  in  denunciation  of  cheating  as  the 
"honest  gambler." 

There  are  two  sides  to  every  question.  As  to  greediness,  the 
clients  were  ill-informed ;  the  outgo  was  ruinous :  for  overhead 
charges,  such  as  rent,  license  and  plant,  police  protection  and 
blackmail.  Then  there  were  squeals  to  be  squared,  guarding 
the  "good  name"  of  the  house;  and  the  payroll  carried  high- 
priced  gunners  and  high-priced  dealers.  Since  the  last,  un- 
watched,  seldom  failed  to  lose  largely  to  a  friend  on  a  fifty- 
fifty  basis,  there  must  be  high-priced  lookouts  as  well.  There 
were  also  an  army  of  cheap  boosters  and  bouncers,  and  an  end 
less  chain  of  stranded  gamblers  asking  and  finding  steak- 
money  and  stake-money,  according  to  professional  tradition. 
It  must  be  admitted  that  the  stake-money  was  faithfully  re 
paid,  when  a  diamond  ring  had  been  transferred,  as  a  formal 
ity,  to  the  lender.  It  is  for  this  rainy-day  cause  that  the  gam 
bler  buys  diamonds  when  flush ;  not  from  inherent  bad  taste. 

To  oppose  the  ordinary  chances  of  fairplay  to  this  terrific 
drain  would  be  hopeless:  the  charge  of  cupidity  falls.  The 
house  was  often  put  to  it  to  furnish  the  "roll."  Psychology 
dictates  the  roll,  the  stacked  and  gleaming  gold,  the  heaped 
bills,  even  the  "chicken-feed."  To  know  that  winning  bets 
will  be  paid  is  a  small  tempting.  A  different  matter  is  the  lure 
of  tangible  gold — massed,  shining,  seducing,  drawing  with  fear 
ful  fascination.  The  eyes  sparkle,  the  fingers  ache  for  it,  the 
blood  mounts  to  the  brain. 

The  house  does  not  object  to  an  occasional  big  winning  by 


CHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT    181 

t 

a  client.  It  is  seed  scattered  for  harvest.  But,  once  in  a 
blue  moon,  some  abnormal  creature  makes  a  killing,  cashes  in, 
goes  out  the  big  door,  and  never  comes  back!  This  is  the 
dreaded  "quitter." 

Now,  anybody  can  make  at  least  one  stupendous  winning,  in 
time — by  wasting  his  life  at  it;  a  triumph  of  wild,  blind  luck 
over  every  device  known  to  the  fraternity;  but  few  there  be 
who  can  keep  it.  "Quitter"  is  the  most  blistering  term  of  the 
gambler's  tongue ;  the  gambler's  wife  will  blush  to  hear  it. 

"A  good  sport"  is  the  winner  who  comes  back.  Gamblers 
are  friendly  to  good  sports.  And  it  must  be  said  that  gam 
blers  are  a  pleasant  people.  They  are  paid  and  trained  to  be 
pleasant.  It  is  rather  a  pity  that  it  is  not  fashionable  in  other 
professions — to  be  pleasant.  To  succeed  greatly  in  the  higher 
walks  of  the  industry,  you  must  be  well-groomed,  you  must 
have  good  looks,  good  health,  good  manners  and  "personal 
magnetism."  Many  an  adept  at  dealing  seconds  or  making  the 
pass  has  lost  out  because  his  teeth  were  bad,  his  smile  alarm 
ing,  or  his  voice  harsh  and  ill-modulated. 

As  to  the  charge  that  cheating  is  unkind  or  wrong,  it  is 
here  denied  in  toto.  Cheating  is  the  one  hopeful  feature  of  the 
business.  Barring  the  almost  extinct  quitter — few  collectors 
have  more  than  one  specimen — you  are  doomed  to  lose,  anyway. 
The  per  cent,  gets  you;  the  better  judgment  of  the  houseman 
gets  you;  the  trained  and  disciplind  patience,  the  change  of 
shifts,  pitting  your  tired  and  fevered  brain  against  fresh  an 
tagonists  :  all  these  things  eat  you  up,  whether  your  madness  is 
for  days  or  years.  Disaster  stuns  you,  conscience  snarls  at 
you,  duty  harries  you.  The  smiling  professional  is  doing  his 
duty ;  his  mind  is  at  ease,  and  easy  money  is  behind  him  to  re 
pair  disaster;  even  an  occasional  heavy  loss  is  a  good  adver 
tisement  for  business.  But  if  he  shall  cheat  you  often  enough 
and  crudely  enough,  you  may  come,  in  a  few  years,  to  realise 
that  you  are  a  fool.  It  takes  longer  for  some. 

So,  the  cheating  seems  kindly  done.  Curiously  enough,  it 
is  not  done  through  kindness.  Nor  is  it  wholly  motived  by 
avarice,  as  is  commonly  supposed.  It  is  from  weariness.  Just 
as  the  sucker  plays  for  excitement,  knowing  it  to  be  dangerous, 
the  gambler  cheats  from  weariness,  knowing  it  to5  be  needless. 
The  gambler  is  bored.  He  is  the  most  bored  man  on  earth. 


182  WEST    IS    WEST 

It  is  his  punishment.  He  can  get  your  money  without  cheat 
ing,  as  easily  as  Thorpe  can  outrun  you  or  Ty  Cobb  out-bat 
you.  But  it  would  take  him  longer:  and,  in  the  meantime,  he 
hates  you.  He  hates  your  flushed  and  foolish  face,  your  fever 
ish  laughter,  your  eager  clutching  at  the  cards,  your  invincible, 
futile  hopes ;  he  loathes  your  credulous  folly,  that  will  neither 
guess  nor  be  warned,  your  stupidity  that  will  not  learn:  he 
envies  you  alike  the  pleasure  and  the  pang:  he  cheats  you  be 
cause  he  hates  you  and  despises  you. 

Had  the  players  signed  a  Round  Robin  as  they  sat  at  the 
round  table,  the  order  would  have  been:  Hike,  Lumber,  Cigars, 
Crooknose,  Travesy  and  Moore — which  brings  the  circle  back 
again  to  Hike  the  Houseman.  Lumber  and  Cigars  were  fix 
tures,  business  men  of  the  town ;  they  laughed,  they  told  stories, 
they  made  fresh  bets,  they  went  the  high-spade  for  drinks. 

Crooknose  was  at  once  the  youngeat  and  the  most  mature  of 
the  party.  He  was  unknown.  For  three  days  that  ominous 
maturity  of  quiet  eye  and  strong  brown  hands  that  wasted  no 
motion  had  oppressed  poor  Hike  to  shameful  honesty.  He 
knew  the  breed.  Evans — so  Crooknose  gave  his  name — played 
a  stiff  game,  at  unexpected  flashes  a  brilliant  one;  lapsing  un 
expectedly  to  the  safe  and  sane,  and  showing  an  uncanny  in 
stinct  against  disaster.  He  said  little,  made  no  postmortems, 
and  drank  not  at  all. 

Travesy — a  huge  man,  scarlet-faced  and  over-dressed — was 
in  reality  part  owner  of  the  Tivoli,  but  the  connection  was 
carefully  concealed.  His  cue  was  rough  good  nature,  his  busi 
ness  to  inspire  confidence.  When  his  chips  were  taken  away 
and  he  endeavored  to  buy  more  without  cash,  the  transaction 
was  refused:  "to  encourage  the  others." 

"I  know  you're  all  right,  but  I  can't  do  business  on  jawbone. 
Sorry — but  it's  strictly  against  rules,"  said  Hike. 

So  Travesy,  visibly  miffed,  left  a  marker  to  hold  his  chair, 
and  came  back  presently  with  much  money.  These  things  had 
their  effect.  When  Hike  and  Travesy  fought  out  a  jackpot 
between  themselves,  the  showdown  usually  disclosed  a  scan 
dalous  bluff — privately  remarked  by  Lumber,  Cigars,  and  Jack 
Moore,  promoter,  who  also  joyed  over  the  goodly  gains  taken 
by  Travesy  from  the  house,  to  the  vast  chagrin  of  Hike.  But 
Crooknose  Evans  noted  that  their  bluffing  was  purely  mutual; 


CHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  XIGHT     183 

when  others  called  an  unreasonable  bet,  the  only  chance  to 
win  was  to  beat  a  big  hand.  Silent  Mr.  Evans  also  noticed 
how  these  two  cross-lifted  a  luckless  victim  between  them — • 
and  drew  his  own  conclusions. 

Promoter  Moore,  with  Hike  on  his  left  and  Travesy  on  his 
right,  was  pro  tempore  offensively  wealthy ;  also,  of  his  proper 
nature,  permanently  offensive  and  overbearing:  for  both  which 
reasons  the  Tivoli  desired  his  heart.  Inopportune  Mr.  Evans 
had  delayed  this  consummation;  he  had  Mr.  Hike's  number. 
Twice  in  three  days,  Travesy,  ably  seconded  by  the  promoter's 
purse-pride,  had  tried  to  put  Crooknose  out  of  the  game  by 
making  the  come-in  too  large  for  him;  but  that  imperturbable 
gentleman  had  brought  forth,  without  comment,  sums  surpris 
ing  for  one  of  his  careless  appearance. 

Moore,  with  the  brutal  callousness  of  a  winner,  now  spoke 
openly  of  a  trip  to  Arizona;  Erie  would  relieve  Hike  at  eight 
o'clock;  and  Travesty,  impatient,  gave  Hike  the  signal  for 
Big  Business.  They  played  all  jackpots.  On  Moore's  deal 
no  one  opened. 

"And  you  cash  in  every  night  at  twelve,  Mr.  Evans?"  said 
Travesy,  as  Hike  dealt. 

"Yes.     I  believe  in  the  eight-hour  day." 

"Knew  a  man  once,"  boomed  Travesy,  in  his  rough,  hearty 
way,  "that  set  himself  another  sort  of  limit.  When  he  won 
a  hundred  dollars  or  lost  a  hundred,  no  matter  what  time  it 
was,  he  quit  for  the  night.  Sounds  like  a  good  plan,  doesn't 
it?" 

"I  used  to  win  one  day  and  lose  the  next,"  said  Moore. 
"Now  I  only  play  every  other  day." 

"Evings !  I  never  could  do  that !"  said  Cigars  genially. 
"I'm  out  for  the  fun  more  than  the  money." 

"I'm  out  for  the  money,"  said  Evans. 

Lumber  passed ;  Cigars  passed,  showing  Lumber  the  high 
spade ;  and  ordered  more  of  the  same.  Evans  passed ;  Travesy 
passed.  Moore  opened  for  a  small  stack.  But  the  game  was  a 
big  game;  every  man  round  the  board  had  won  and  lost  alter 
nately,  buying  more  chips  when  he  lost ;  and  the  smallest  stacks 
were  staggering,  measured  by  day-wage. 

Hike  looked  over  his  cards,  laughed  carelessly,  and  stayed; 
Lumber  and  Cigars  passed;  Evans  stayed. 


184  WEST    IS    WEST 

"I'll  draw  with  you  boys  myself.  I  ought  to  raise,  but  I 
haven't  the  nerve/'  said  Travesty.  "One  card,  when  you  get 
to  me." 

"Asleep  at  the  switch!"  said  Hike  in  deep  vexation.  "I 
don't  suppose  Moore  would  have  laid  down,  but  I  wouldn't 
have  had  you  two  fiends  drawing  to  four-card  flushes  on  us. 
Still,  I  couldn't  very  well  raise.  I  don't  mind  letting  you  fel 
lows  see  what  I  am  going  to  draw  to."  He  discarded  two  and 
spread  the  others,  face  up.  "Two  tens  and  a  spike  ace.  Goin' 
to  have  a  cheap  draw,  I  was,  and  try  for  aces-up,  or  thirty 
miles  of  railroad.  Oh,  well!  Cards,  gentlemen?" 

Evans,  Travesy  and  Moore  drew  one  each.  Hike  drew  two 
and  pushed  the  deck  over  to  Lumber. 

Promoter  Moore  had  been  dealt  two  kings,  the  ace  of  spades, 
the  joker  and  a  trash  card.  The  joker  is  always  an  ace  in 
Texas.  He  drew  a  third  king  and  bet  largely. 

''I  hope  you  gentlemen  make  your  flushes,  I'm  sure.  The 
more  the  merrier."  Hike  looked  at  his  draw,  knuckled  his 
chin,  and  stayed.  "Oho!  Caught  your  other  ten?  Hard  luck, 
old  man  —  hard  luck!"  said  Moore. 

Crooknose  Evans,  unhurried,  sized  a  stack  up  to  the  pro 
moter's  bet. 

"Afraid    to    raise  —  on    a    flush?"    taunted    the    promoter. 


"I  always  play  my  hand  to  suit  myself,  you  know,"  said 
Evans,  unangered.  "And  this  looks  like  a  good  place  to  get 
off.  What  you  got?" 

"Hold  on!  Ho-old  on!"  boomed  Travesy.  "I'm  in  this 
thing  yet  !"  He  raised  the  pot  for  another  stack.  "Mine's  all 
green.  The  hide  goes  with  the  tallow!" 

"All  green?  That  won't  buy  you  much.  Your  one  only 
play  was  to  call.  Evans  played  his  hand  right.  He  under 
stands  poker,"  said  Moore.  His  piggy  eyes  shone  greed;  his 
pulpy  cheeks  tightened  to  a  cruel  sneer.  "Now  I'm  going  to 
prize  the  roof  off.  There's  no  use  sending  a  boy  to  mill." 
He  raised  with  an  insulting  flourish.  "I  always  expected  to 
make  a  hog-killing  in  this  joint!" 

Hike  saw  the  doubled  raise  and  raised  yet  again. 

"I've  got  one  more  squeal  in  me,  at  that!"  he  observed. 

Quietly  and  unhurried,  Mr.  Evans  saw  the  three  successive 


CHIPS  THAT  PASS  IN  THE  NIGHT     185 

raises  and  further  contributed  his  entire  pile  of  expensive 
chips ;  a  goodly  pile,  for  he  had  been  winning. 

"Domino!"  said  Mr.  Evans  mildly. 

Travesy  flung  down  his  hand.  He  had  nothing;  his  bets  had 
been  made  to  tempt  the  Moore  money  to  the  open.  He  was  a 
hardened  gambler,  but  he  eyed  Crooknose  askance.  A  fortune 
was  at  stake  beyond  any  previous  hazard  of  the  Tivoli.  He 
knew  that  Evans  had  not  been  expected  in  on  the  play;  it  was 
possible  that  pure  chance  had  sent  him  better  cards  than  the 
four  tens  which  Hike  was  to  hold.  For  the  house  must  merely 
win,  without  frequent  holding  of  invincible  hands,  which  is 
bad  form. 

Moore's  arrogant  manner  had  left  him;  sweat  stood  on  his 
heavy  jowl;  he  called,  but  his  hand  twitched.  He  had  few 
chips  left. 

Hike  called.  Hike  also  felt  curiosity  as  to  the  chance-held 
hand  of  friend  Evans.  But,  after  all,  it  was  not  Hike's  money, 
and  he  was  acting  under  instructions:  all  he  had  to  lose  was 
a  job.  Besides,  he  had  warned  Travesy  against  Evans. 

"It's  hard  to  hold  my  mouth  just  right,"  he  confessed.  "All 
right,  Mr.  Evans.  Beat  me  and  buy  the  drinks !" 

"Beat  you!"  Moore  smote  the  table  with  his  heavy  fist. 
"Damn  you,  Hike,  I've  got  you  skinned  a  mile !  I'm  sweating 
blood,  but  there's  the  man  I'm  afraid  of."  He  jerked  his 
thumb  at  Evans.  "You — you've  got  a  ten-full  at  best.  You 
ran't  have  an  ace-full,  for  one  ace  was  faced  in  the  discard. 
Here's  mine !"  He  spread  down  his  king-full. 

"I  am  also  afraid  of  Mr.  Evans — not  of  you.  I  have  here 
four  large,  juicy  tens — forty  miles  of  railroad!  What  is  it, 
Evans — a  gold  chain  or  a  wooden  leg?  What  you  got?" 

"Oh,  me?"  said  Crooknose  pleasantly.  "I  got  a  six-full!" 
It  appeared,  a  clicking  flash  in  his  left  hand ;  the  muzzle  was 
at  Travesy's  ear.  "Quiet!" 

Quiet  ensued. 

"Mr.  Moore,  pass  your  left  hand  carefully  under  the  edge 
of  the  table  toward  Mr.  Hike.  You  will  find  two  cards  there, 
held  in  a  clip.  Mr.  Hike  exchanged  them  for  his  two  tens.  I 
saw  him  do  it.  Coarse  work,  Hike;  coarse  work!  You  grieve 
me !" 


186  WEST    IS    WEST 

Mr.  Moore  produced  the  cards.  Mr.  Moore  was  subdued — 
not  to  say  extinct. 

"Now,  Mr.  Hike,  go  softly  and  bring  the  bankroll  from  the 
checkrack.  Very  softly!  The  bills  only.  Never  mind  the 
hard  stuff.  ...  I  thank  you !  I  will  not  stay  till  twelve  to 
night,  I  believe.  This  will  do  me  nicely.  Moore,  you  are  en 
titled  to  this  little  pot — you  had  the  high  hand,  leaving  Hike 
out.  I'll  keep  the  money  and  you  take  the  chips.  Tinhorn 
Travesy  will  cash  'em.  He  can't  afford  to  chiprack  you.  He's 
the  owner,  you  know.  By  the  way,  Travesy  had  nothing  in 
his  hand  but  cards — same  as  I  did.  He  was  just  in  to  cross- 
lift  you.  Well,  I  must  be  going.  Got  a  gun,  Travesy? 
Never  mind,  keep  it.  You're  welcome  to  follow  me — but,  if 
you  come,  come  a-shooting!"  He  backed  out,  closing  the  door 
behind  him. 

As  young  Evans  ran  swiftly  down  the  stair,  he  knew  that 
the  speaking  tube  was  in  action.  Could  he  gain  the  street  by 
speed,  or  must  he  fight  his  way  out?  Neither:  he  did  what 
may  be  expected  from  his  kind :  the  unexpected. 

By  terrible  and  evil  ways  his  reckless  feet  had  reached  the 
silent  stairway.  Perhaps  they  were  sent  there.  Midstep  be 
tween  foot  and  floor  he  made  a  swift  choice ;  and  so,  unknow 
ing,  turned  his  back  on  shame  forever. 

He  entered  the  swinging  doors  of  the  long  gambling  room 
on  the  second  floor,  passed  through  quietly,  unnoticed  in  the 
crowd,  and  went  hurriedly  up  a  rear  stairway  to  the  floor  he 
had  just  quitted,  even  as  his  late  companions  poured  down  the 
front  way  to  swell  the  alarm.  There  was,  as  he  knew,  a  way 
to  the  roof — half  stair,  half  ladder.  He  unhooked  the  door 
and  stepped  out  into  the  hot,  still  night. 

The  Tivoli  was  on  a  corner.  In  the  starlight  he  turned 
northward  across  the  uneven,  flat  roofs,  searching  for  a  way 
of  escape  through  another  building;  and  so,  near  the  further 
end  of  the  block,  he  saw  a  mellow  glow  ahead.  It  came 
through  a  skylight.  He  knelt  beside  it  and  peeped  down  into 
the  lighted  hall. 


CHAPTER    XXI 

CROOKNOSE   REPRESENTS 

THERE  were  antlers  on  the  wall;  a  lion's  skin  was  on  the 
floor;  a  girl  stood  beyond,  just  putting  the  pins  in  her  hat. 
Evans  could  see  her  face ;  it  was  fresh  and  smiling  and  happy. 
She  took  a  step  forward;  a  man  came  to  meet  her.  A  little 
corner  was  broken  from  a  pane — Evans  heard  their  speech. 

"Where  you  goin',  missy?"  said  Ikey. 

The  girl  drew  herself  up,  startled. 

"I  don't  know  you,  sir!" 

She  stepped  aside  to  pass  him;  but  Ikey  kept  beside  her. 

"Leaving?  Oh,  I  guess  not!  You're  going  back  to  your 
room — that's  what!" 

Her  voice  shook. 

"I'll  call  for  help !" 

"  'Help'?"  He  laughed  cruelly.   "Help?  Take  a  good  look!" 

Her  hand  was  at  her  throat.  A  sudden  knot  of  men  were  in 
the  hallway — four — six — eight;  still  they  came  from  opening 
doors — rat- faced,  grinning,  leering. — Oh,  Billy  Boy!  Father! 

On  the  roof,  unseen,  Crooknose  rose,  snarling — the  clean 
and  wholesome  scoundrel.  A  woman  glanced  from  a  doorway 
and  turned  back,  indifferent,  shameful.  Then  Katie  knew. 

"Oh,  God!"  The  word  came  in  a  dreadful  shriek.  Ikey's 
hand  was  on  her  mouth. 

"God?"  croaked  Ikey.  "If  God  has  any  affairs  in  this  house, 
He'd  better  represent!" 

He  said  no  more  on  earth.  Crooknose  crashed  through  the 
skylight,  shooting  as  he  came.  He  shot  as  he  fell,  sprawling; 
he  shot  again  from  hand  and  knee.  Thrice  dead,  Ikey  dragged 
the  girl  down  as  he  fell. 

The  flash  and  roar  of  many  guns:  Crooknose  charged.  Flame 
darted  before  him  and  men  fell  at  the  flame.  Katie  saw  him, 

187 


188  WEST    IS    WEST 

blazing  terrible,  alone.  He  staggered  through  lances  of  inter 
secting  fire;  his  heavy  gun  crashed  out  a  shrieking  face;  he 
sprang  aside,  in,  out  and  back;  and  smote  and  parried,  and 
smote  again.  There  was  a  rush  of  swift  help — to  aid  the  ten 
against  one.  Shouts,  oaths — screaming,  hideous  faces,  glitter 
of  guns,  down-striking — all  rushed  together  as  the  mercy  of 
blackness  came  to  her. 

Crooknose  fought  on.  His  last  cartridge  was  fired  as  he 
broke  through  the  bullet  zone.  Pain  tore  him;  arms  clutched 
at  him;  they  bore  him  down;  he  was  up,  he  struck  with  gun 
and  fist  and  foot  and  knee.  They  were  too  many,  they  could 
not  shoot  without  killing  each  other;  the  blows  of  guns  and 
arms  crashed  together  in  midair  to  save  him;  they  slipped 
on  blood,  they  trampled  on  living  bodies,  they  crushed  him, 
they  were  dragging  him  down!  A  helmet  at  the  stairhead,  a 
bluecoat — Gannon ! 

Evans  heaved  up ;  he  broke  his  gun-arm  loose  and  ham 
mered;  he  shouted  high  and  clear: 

"A  straight  girl,  Bullneck !    Get  her  out !" 

"Ho-O!"  bellowed  Gannon.  His  automatic  pumped  death 
into  the  shuddering  tangle — three  shots.  Then,  from  an  al 
cove,  other  macque-meu  poured  upon  him;  arms  choked  him 
from  behind ;  hands  twisted  the  gunbarrel  aside.  Gannon 
heaved  and  twisted  and  strained;  his  great  arms  crushed  and 
lifted;  the  man  clutching  the  automatic  felt  the  stair  rail  at 
his  hip,  bent  back  and  fell  screaming  down  the  stairwell  to 
death ;  the  gun  went  with  him.  The  choking  arms  at  Gannon's 
neck  relaxed,  a  foe  fled  down  the  stair.  Gannon  rushed  on, 
roaring,  blood-mad.  Forgotten  was  the  nightstick  in  the  sling; 
two  Irish  fists  swung  out,  he  plowed  a  way  into  that  hell  of 
hate.  Bullneck  and  Crooknose,  grafter  and  thief — they 
struck  and  swung  and  fought  the  shame  and  the  men  of  shame ; 
struck  and  staggered  and  came  again. 

The  hammering  gun  rose  slowly  now,  it  fell  feebly.  Crook- 
nose  reeled  and  stumbled,  his  left  arm  hung  helpless,  his  eye 
was  glazing.  He  struck  once  more,  a  wild  and  random  blow ; 
hands  caught  his  wrists  and  twisted;  the  gun  dropped.  The 
hands  dived  for  it;  but  Crooknose  took  a  neck  in  the  choking 
crook  of  his  arm — a  neck  that  went  with  the  hands — and 
dropped  to  a  huddle  on  the  floor,  dragging  the  neck  with  him 


CROOKNOSE    REPRESENTS       189 

in  the  locked  arm.  A  thug  bent  over  him,  with  a  pistol  to  his 
very  ear;  and  fell,  faceless,  before  Gannon's  heavy  boot. 
Loyal  Bullneck  bestrode  his  fallen  ally.  His  hand  fell  to  the 
forgotten  billy;  he  swung  out  mightily;  hell  beat  upon  him. 
.  .  .  Ages  after,  the  snarling  faces  faded  away. 

Gannon  looked  down  then  at  sprawling  Crooknose,  and 
mused  at  him.  The  clothes  were  torn  from  Crooknose;  he  was 
bare  to  the  waist,  blood  gushing  along  the  white  skin,  blood 
on  his  tawny  hair,  a  blackened  face  gripped  under  his  arm. 
It  was  very  curious,  thought  Gannon,  only  dimly  aware  that 
shouting  men  poured  from  the  stairway — Captain  Hughes  of 
the  Rangers,  roundsmen,  citizens — or  that  such  macque-men 
as  were  not  writhing  on  the  floor,  or  lying  very  still  there, 
stood  hands  up  before  a  score  of  pistols. 

"Gannon!     Gannon!    What's  happened  here?" 

Gannon  stood  in  drifting  smoke  and  passed  a  hand  stupidly 
across  his  face.  This  was  McCabe,  his  sergeant,  calling  him. 
Now  how  did  McCabe  get  here?  Gannon  looked  beyond  Mc 
Cabe  to  Hughes  of  the  Rangers:  he  spoke  jerkily,  breathless, 
groping  for  words: 

"Captain  Hughes — straight  girl  here !  He  said  so — Crook- 
nose.  You,  Captain — straight  man  yourself — you  take  care  of 
her!  Back  there,  she  is.  Take  her  home  yourself.  Mustn't 
let  nobody  see !" 

He  looked  down  to  Crooknose  for  further  counsel. 

Captain  Hughes  knelt  by  Katie.  "Just  fainted!  I'll  take 
care  of  her/'  he  reported.  "But  this  man  here  is  most  mighty 
dead!  Three  shots!  Some  shooting!  Who  did  it,  Gannon?" 

Gannon  pointed  with  his  nightstick. 

"Him — Crooknose.  Dead,  I  guess.  Never  mind.  Him  and 
me — old  Crooknose — we  done  it!"  He  smiled  foolishly  and 
sank  to  a  place  beside  his  friend. 

"Lord!"  said  Hughes,  as  he  lifted  Katie  and  crossed  the 
shambles.  "All  this  was  while  we  was  getting  upstairs!  I 
wasn't  twenty  yards  from  the  door  at  the  first  shot !" 

"Hurt?  Who?  Him?  Crooknose?"  said  Gannon,  propped 
and  bandaged  in  a  hospital  bed.  "Divil  a  bit !  Arm  and  some 
ribs  broke ;  shot  a  little  around  the  edges ;  a  few  taps  on  the 
head;  maybe  a  bruise  here  and  there  along  the  rest  of  him — 


190  WEST    IS    WEST 

nothing  serious.  He's  all  right !  God  certainly  is  good  to  the 
Irish!" 

"Irish  nothing!  Evans  is  a  good  Welsh  name,  as  all  the 
world  knows,"  said  Captain  Hughes  hotly.  "Do  you  stick  to 
your  shamrock  and  Saint  Patrick  and  do  not  be  robbing  your 
neighbors !" 

"If  his  name  is  really  Evans?"  said  the  Chief  of  Police 
sourly.  "Evans  or  John  Doe,  it's  a  nice  stone  cell  for  his 
when  he  gets  well!" 

"For  the  looting  of  the  Tivoli,  is  it?  Him?  And  after  that 
£ght  he  made?"  Gannon  sat  up  in  bed,  his  eyes  fever-bright, 
and  shook  a  bandaged  fist  at  his  astounded  chief.  "Hear  me 
now,  ye  black  scut!  You  can  put  the  rollers  under  me  and 
damned  to  you — but  touch  one  hair  of  the  brindle  head  of  him 
and  I  br-r-eak  you,  ye  gr-rafter!" 


DICK 

CHAPTER    XXII 

PRIVATES   OF   INDUSTRY 

"WELL?"  Mendenhall  smiled  broadly.  "Do  you  hear  op 
portunity  kicking  in  the  front  door?  Shall  we  let  her  in,  or 
do  we  call  the  police?" 

A  cone  of  mellow  light  fell  softly  on  one  corner  of  a  Gar 
gantuan  desk.  A  few  bits  of  ore  were  scattered  within  that 
shining  circle,  samples  from  the  Torpedo-Sundown  Consoli 
dated.  Clem  Gray  laid  a  paper  beside  them.  His  hand  trem 
bled  a  little. 

"If  you're  sure  the  assay  is  straight  and  if  there's  any  such 
body  of  ore  as  your  borings  indicate — why,  with  copper  the 
price  it  is,  we  are  all  rich.  The  Torpedo  is  a  made  mine." 

"Clem,"  said  Mendenhall,  "you  amuse  me ;  you  do  indeed. 
Your  simplicity  is  quite  refreshing.  As  your  poor  father 
would  have  phrased  it,  you  are  a  pointblank  fool.  You  seem 
to  think  I  am  going  to  let  th*e  stockholders  in  on  this.  Guess 
again." 

"But — how — why "  stammered  Gray.  His  face  was 

blank. 

"I'll  spell  it  out  to  you."  Mendenhall  sat  back  in  his  swivel 
chair  and  grinned  complacency.  "You're  on  your  feet,  Clem; 
push  over  that  box  of  cigars,  will  you?  Help  yourself.  Sit 
down." 

"Now,"  he  continued,  when  his  cigar  was  fairly  alight, 
"here's  the  proposition:  No  one  is  to  make  one  round  red 
copper  cent  but  you  and  me  and  the  superintendent — unless 
we're  absolutely  forced  to  let  old  J.  C.  in.  We  may  have  to 
do  that  to  pull  it  off.  I  would  much  prefer  to  skin  him.  Bull- 

191 


192  WEST    IS    WEST 

headed,  overbearing  old  roughneck,  Armstrong  is.  But  he 
owns  a  biggish  share  of  stock,  and  he's  from  Missouri." 

"I  haven't  the  least  idea  of  what  you  are  talking  about,"  de 
clared  Gray. 

Leaning  forward,  Mendenhall  laid  his  heavy  hand  on  Gray's 
knee. 

"We'll  freeze  out  the  minority  stockholders.  Nothing  doing 
but  assessments,  trouble  and  more  trouble  from  now  on  until 
we  can  buy  their  interests  at  our  own  price." 

"My  aunt !"  Young  Gray  sat  up  with  a  feeble  giggle.  "And 
their  money  paid  for  all  the  development  work,  didn't  it?" 

"Your  father  and  I  put  in  the  mine  for  half  the  capital 
stock.  The  proceeds  from  sale  of  the  other  half  developed  the 
mine,  certainly." 

"And  every  cent  the  mine  has  produced  has  gone  right  back 
into  it  for  more  machinery,  buildings,  wagon  roads,"  cackled 
Gray.  "All  the  money  that  might  have  gone  for  dividends?" 

"Well,  not  quite  all.  Some  of  it  went  for  operating  ex 
penses.  Your  father,  as  president  and  general  manager,  and 
myself,  as  secretary — we  drew  good  salaries,  Clem ;  quite  fair, 
quite  fair !"  said  Mendenhall  complacently.  "The  mine  super 
intendent,  too — man  of  great  technical  knowledge — his  salary 
was  a  fat  and  juicy  cut.  Your  dad  and  I,  we  had  the  naming 
of  the  superintendent,  and  we  made  a  very  satisfactory  ar 
rangement  with  him.  We  bought  supplies,  too;  let  contracts 
for  freighting,  for  mine  timbers,  iand  all  that." 

"Stop,  Uncle  Herman;  you'll  be  the  death  of  me,"  said 
Clem  Gray.  "Oh,  you  sly  old  dog!  You  and  the  old  man 
were  getting  yours,  no  matter  what  the  mine  did,  eh?" 

"Mining  is  a  risky  and  uncertain  business.  I  never  cared 
much  for  mining.  Other  people's  money,  my  son — other  peo 
ple's  money — that's  the  surest  thing  there  is.  And,  of  course, 
there  was  always  a  chance  that  the  mine  might  pay.  The 
Bennett-Stephenson  has  been  a  steady  producer  since  sixty- 
six.  Strictly  speaking,  the  Torpsuncon  has  always  made  a 
modest  return  on  the  investment.  But  we  have  paid  few  divi 
dends,  except  at  first,  because" — Mendenhall  coughed  mod 
estly — "because  of  our  foresighted  policy  of  reinvestment  for 
permanent  betterment." 

"And  now  that  you've  really  struck  something  big — by  the 


PRIVATES   OF   INDUSTRY       193 

use  and  risk  of  their  money — you're  going  to  take  it  away 
from  'em !"  Young  Gray  rocked  with  glee ;  his  voice  was  a 
thin  crow.  "Oh,  this  is  too  rich!  Gets  'em  comin'  and  goin' 
— what?  You're  the  ticket,  gov'nor!  I  string  my  bets  along 
with  you.  Go  on,  tell  us  how  you're  goin'  to  do  it.  I'm  sure 
I  don't  see." 

"Easy  as  silk.  Since  your  father  died,  I've  acted  as  both 
president  and  secretary,  and  Spencer  has  been  both  superin 
tendent  and  general  manager.  It  was  our  own  proposition. 
We  put  it  up  to  the  stockholders,  as  a  measure  of  economy — 
clear  saving  of  two  salaries — self-denying  ordinance.  'Twas 
much  appreciated.  But  we  were  figuring  on  this  very  possi 
bility.  The  mine  kept  shaping  up  better  as  we  went  down, 
and  we  wanted  to  have  everything  in  our  own  hands.  Spencer 
is  my  man.  I  can  hang  him  or  get  him  a  life  sentence  at  best. 
To  make  sure,  I  gave  him  a  bunch  of  stock.  Five  thousand 
shares.  He's  mine." 

"Excuse  me  if  I  interrupt,  but  why  did  you  take  me  in?" 

"Mostly  because  I  need  your  votes  to  retain  control,"  ex 
plained  the  elder  man  simply.  "Partly,  I  hope,  because  you 
are  old  Pete  Gray's  son.  Pete  and  me  was  pardners  all  our 
lives.  We've  seen  more  downs  than  ups,  I  want  to  tell  you. 
You  may  not  believe  it,  but  Pete  and  me  were  fairly  decent 
chaps  when  we  were  down — and  young.  Gettin'  old  and  up  is 
what  plays  hell  with  a  man.  However,  comma,  old  Pete's  boy 
is  different  from  other  folks — to  me.  Not  but  what  you  want 
to  watch  me,"  he  added  hastily. 

Gray  reassured  him. 

"I'll  keep  an  eye  on  you,  all  right.  A  man  that  will  play 
this  merry  little  prank  on  his  backers  will  do  most  anything." 

"That's  funny,  too — your  dad  never  would  stand  for  this 
play  I'm  pulling  off,"  said  the  old  man  musingly.  "I've 
talked  it  over  with  him.  "Aw,  give  the  poor  boobs  a  run  for 
their  money,  Hermie,'  he  says.  'Give  'em  a  fair  break  at  what 
little  outside  chance  they've  got/  he  says.  But  since  he  died, 
when  any  working  began  showing  up  extra  good,  Spence  and 
me  took  the  gangs  off  and  set  'em  to  work  somewhere  else. 
The  old  Torpedo  has  been  shipping  nothing  but  her  lowest 
grade  ore — and,  by  George,  she's  paid  a  little,  even  so,  and 
freightin'  forty  miles  to  a  railroad.  But  this  is  the  first  ore 


194  WEST    IS    WEST 

body  we've  ever  struck  worth  the  trouble  of  playing  the 
freezeout  game  to  a  finish.  It's  going  to  need  careful  play 
ing,  too.  Hey!  What  are  you  looking  so  glum  about?" 

"While  you  were  shipping  lew-grade  ore  and  cutting  out 
dividends — suppose  I  had  sold  out,  hey?"  demanded  Gray  in 
dignantly.  "Nice  game,  ain't  it — and  me  in  the  dark?  Oh, 
you'll  bear  watching,  all  right — fox!" 

"Now  listen  here,  Clemmy,  didn't  I  always  advise  you  not 
to  sell?  Listen  now,  didn't  I  tell  you  if  you  needed  money 
not  to  sell  Torpedo,  to  come  to  me  every  time,  that  I'd  lend 
you  money — didn't  I,  Clem?  You  mustn't  go  to  thinkin'  that 
of  me.  A  fellow's  got  to  believe  in  something,  and  he's  got  to 
be  square  with  some  one.  Not  on  your  own  account  altogether, 
but  old  Pete's  boy — I  wouldn't  do  old  Pete's  boy.  Honest,  I 
meant  to  let  you  in  all  along,  if  the  play  came  off." 

"Oh,  so  you  say,"  said  Clem  sulkily. 

"Don't  you  believe  me,  Clem?  You  don't  have  to  believe 
me — see  for  yourself.  I  had  to  have  you,  Clem — had  to  have 
your  stock  to  pull  it  off.  I  couldn't  buy  you  out  if  I  wanted 
to.  Haven't  got  the  money.  That's  right.  I've  been  blowin' 
in  the  mazuma  like  a  carpenter  sows  nails.  But  you've  got  a 
lot  of  old  Pete's  money  yet.  You  put  your  money  in  against 
my  brains  and  we  hammer  Torpedo  down  and  buy  it  all.  You 
and  me  and  Spence  own  about  forty  per  cent,  of  the  mine  be 
tween  us — so  much  that  we  can  easy  run  things  to  suit  our 
selves,  for  all  the  resident  stockholders  can  do.  They  ain't 
likely  to  interfere,  anyhow.  The  scheme  I'm  going  to  work 
will  make  them  fall  right  in  and  help  cut  their  own  throats — 
you'll  see !  Old  Armstrong  is  the  only  one  I'm  afraid  of,  him 
and  his  old,  long,  hard  head.  If  he  gets  his  back  up,  we'll 
just  have  to  take  him  in,  that's  all.  With  him,  we'll  have  a 
clear  majority  of  the  stock,  Eastern  proxies  and  all — but, 
Lordy,  I  hate  to  go  snooks  with  J.  C." 

"Would  he  come  in?" 

"Who — J.  C.  ?  On  the  high  moral  lay,  you  mean  ?  Hell,  I 
hadn't  thought  of  that!  Maybe  he  wouldn't.  We'll  make 
a  big  try  without  him." 

"What's  your  scheme?  I'm  quite  in  the  dark.  I  under 
stand  that  none  of  the  good  ore  went  to  the  company  assayer. 


PRIVATES    OF   INDUSTRY       195 

The  suckers  won't  have  any  way  of  knowing  we've  struck  it 
rich.  That's  as  far  as  I've  got.  Go  on  from  there." 

"We'll  have  a  strike.  Tie  up  the  mine  indefinitely,"  said 
Mendenhall,  with  an  oily  smile.  "These  chuckle-headed  Cor- 
nishmen  are  ripe  for  it.  They've  been  growling  for  more  mine 
props  and  four  dollars,  and  every  gang  to  do  their  own  timber- 
in'.  Spencer  will  give  'em  less  stulls  and  poor  lagging;  he'll 
put  a  gang  of  Mexicans  timberin'  up — measures  of  economy, 
which  will  commend  themselves  to  the  support  of  the  stock 
holders — that  sort  of  thing." 

"On  the  level,"  said  Clem,  "those  suckers  ought  to  be  robbed 
— stockholders,  not  miners.  I'm  rather  an  ass  myself,  as  you 
so  kindly  remind  me  from  time  to  time ;  but  even  so,  I  can  see 
that  safe  timbering  is  the  cheapest  timbering." 

Mendenhall  tugged  at  his  square  gray  beard  and  eyed  his 
young  guest  reflectively. 

"Sure.  That's  because  you  really  know  a  little  about  the 
work  at  first  hand.  Perhaps  you  wouldn't  be  such  a  fool, 
Clem,  if  you  had  done  more  work.  I  always  warned  Pete  he 
was  making  a  mistake  with  you.  Lord,  it's  a  queer  world ! 
If  your  m  ither  had  lived,  Clem,  we  might  all  have  been  dif 
ferent — ycu,  anyhow.  She  named  you  after  this  old  town, 
boy." 

"Never  mind  about  me.  I  get  ample  information  about  my 
self  every  day,  from  the  most  surprising  quarters.  You  had 
got  as  far  as  dealing  mine  props  from  the  bottom,"  prompted 
Clem.  "Go  on  from  there." 

"Oh,  yes !  Spence'll  turn  *em  down,  and  he'll  do  it  ugly. 
If  necessary,  he'll  cut  their  wages  to  three  dollars.  They're 
getting  three-fifty  now,  and  wanting  four.  It  won't  be  neces 
sary.  Hot-headed  bunch,  these  old-timers — and  they  really 
should  have  more  timbers  than  they've  been  getting  lately. 
They  know  it ;  they'll  quit  on  that  proposition  without  waiting 
to  see  about  wages.  And  there's  a  hundred  mean  little  ways 
of  irritating  men — ways  that  these  inarticulate  people  won't 
be  able  to  explain." 

"Maybe  only  part  of  'em  will  quit.  There's  no  union  here," 
observed  Clem. 

"No,  there's  no  union;  San  Clemente  is  cut  off  from  the 
rest  of  the  world  about  as  much  as  if  we  were  on  an  island. 


196  WEST   IS    WEST 

But  that  very  isolation  makes  folks  stick  together.  And  these 
people  are  clannish.  They'll  strike,  and  they'll  stick.  The 
rest  will  be  easy.  The  management  will  be  firm  but  stubborn. 
Why  not,  when  we  don't  want  'em  to  go  back  to  work?  Cap 
ital  lying  idle — overhead  piling  up — armed  guards  at  a  fancy 
price — sump  filling  up  with  water — assessments — and  down 
comes  the  price  of  Torpedo-Sundown  Con!" 

''Kind-a  tougli  on  the  workin'  Johnnies,  what?" 

"Cousin  Jock?  Do  'em  good.  Take  'em  down  a  peg. 
They've  been  pretty  darned  independent  here  lately.  They'll 
all  be  more  tractable  for  us  when  we  need  them.  And  they 
won't  come  to  any  real  grief.  All  these  cowmen  will  be  doing 
the  Red-Cross  act — women  and  children  first.  I'm  glad  of 
that,  too.  Mighty  insolent,  uppity  lot,  cowmen.  They've  al 
ways  had  a  good  deal  to  say  about  how  San  Clemente  mines 
was  run.  I'll  be  glad  to  see  that  big-mouth  bunch  dig  down  in 
their  jeans  to  play  our  game  for  us." 

"We'll  have  to  make  a  bluff  at  getting  another  crew  of; 
miners,"  said  the  3Toung  man  thoughtfully. 

"Yep — Mexicans.  They'll  scare  the  Mexicans  off.  That 
will  set  the  Mexican  freighters  against  'em,  and  the  courts,  and 
the  Mexican  population  generally." 

"Race-feeling — perpetratin'  dastardly  outrages  on  life  and 
property — that  sort  of  thing?"  laughed  Clem. 

"Exactly.  Alienate  any  possible  sympathy  that  might  be 
coming  from  the  minority  stockholders  who  live  here,  too,  if 
we  can  only  stir  'em  up  to  a  little  violence.  Once  we  get  a 
foolish  gun-play  started,  the  justice  of  their  original  demands 
will  be  lost  in  the  dust." 

"Ship  in  some  one  on  the  sly,"  said  Clem,  "keep  him  in 
funds,  make  it  his  job  to  keep  the  whisky  going.  That  will 
turn  the  trick.  John  Barleycorn  is  what  turns  public  opinion." 

"You  said  it,  son.  Once  the  strikers  get  to  hellin'  round, 
old  J.  C.  will  be  red-hot  against  them.  He'll  close  down  his 
thinking  machine  till  the  miners  come  to  his  terms — he'll  think 
they're  his  terms,  he'll  not  suspect  us ;  and  so  he'll  not  throw 
in  with  the  scatterin'  Torpedo  stock  to  investigate.  That's 
the  important  point — old  J.  C.  Armstrong  counts  for  more 
than  courts  or  cowmen.  Without  him  both  strikers  and  stock 
holders  will  be  playin*  without  ace,  face  or  trump." 


PRIVATES    OF    INDUSTRY       197 

"You're  sure  the  assays  are  straight,  Uncle  Herman?" 
"Sure.  No  'if  for  me.  I  trust  no  one.  I  went  in  after 
the  last  shots  on  the  six-hundred-foot  level  and  picked  up  my 
samples  before  the  muckers  came.  Sent  one  to  Denver,  one  to 
San  Francisco,  and  one  to  the  State  School  of  Mines.  The 
assays  checked — allowin',  of  course,  for  a  slight  difference  in 
the  specimens.  Same  with  the  South  Tunnel,  which  is  only  a 
little  higher  than  the  Six  Hundred  Drift.  The  borings  were 
made  under  my  personal  supervision,  and  Spencer  had  all  the 
cores  mixed  in  the  orebins  except  what  I  sent  away.  And 
them  assays  tallied,  too." 

"Then  we'll  make  a  killing.  When  do  we  begin?" 
"Right  now.  You  go  send  Spencer  up.  Don't  come  back 
yourself.  No  need  for  you  to  be  mixed  up  in  it  openly.  You" 
never  can  tell — we  may  get  in  trouble.  I'll  give  Spence  his 
instructions.  These  Welshmen  used  to  growl  at  Pete's  driv 
ing  them,"  said  Mendenhall  jovially.  "I'll  make  'em  think  my 
little  finger  is  thicker  than  old  Pete's  loins. 


CHAPTER    XXIII 

HOW  DICK  CAME  TO  SAN  CLEMENTS 

BY  the  converging  cattle  trails  Rainboldt  had  known  for 
an  hour  that  water  was  near  by.  He  came  upon  the  ranch 
suddenly,  deep-hidden  in  a  hill-sheltered  cove.  He  drew  rein 
at  the  silent  house. 

A  window  swung  open  on  creaking  hinges.  Dust  lay  lightly 
on  the  side  of  it.  Dust  lay  thick  on  the  floor  of  the  empty 
room.  Rainboldt  rubbed  his  nose  thoughtfully.  Wiseman, 
his  claybank  horse,  brought  bright  eyes  to  bear  upon  the  situ 
ation,  and  twitched  an  ear  back  at  his  master.  They  passed 
on  to  the  corral. 

Cattle  sunned  themselves  in  the  corral,  comfortably  asleep 
on  the  warm  sand,  or  gathered  in  congenial  groups — Here- 
fords,  line-backed,  white-faced,  sleek  and  tame.  They  made 
way  grudgingly.  Wide-eyed  calves  peered  fearfully  at  the 
intruder.  Rainboldt  slipped  the  bridle  off  and  hung  it  on 
the  saddle  horn ;  he  loosened  the  cinches ;  he  slapped  the  clay- 
bank's  neck. 

"Go  to  it,  you  liT  ol*  son-of-a-gun!"  he  said.  "Drink 
hearty !" 

Wiseman  dipped  his  velvet  muzzle  daintily  into  the  brim 
ming  coolness  of  the  upper  trough.  There  were  six  water 
troughs,  wide  and  deep  and  long,  ranged  stair-fashion  down 
the  slope;  the  slender  overflow  from  each  successive  trough 
fell  to  the  next  below  with  a  blurred  and  pleasant  bell  note; 
a  clinking  of  fairy  anvils,  a  sound  of  mimic  echoes  slight  and 
silver,  blended  to  drowsy  music. 

Wiseman  sighed  blissfully  and  closed  his  eyes  for  a  little 
repose.  Rainboldt  opened  a  gate  into  the  well  yard ;  he  drank 
from  the  clanking  pump;  he  washed  his  face  and  hands.  The 

198 


DICK  CAME  TO  SAN  CLEMENTE     199 

windmill  creaked  and  complained.  An  oil  can  hung  beside 
the  pump.  Rainboldt  climbed  the  tall  steel  tower  and  oiled 
the  gearing.  He  washed  his  hands  again  at  the  trough  and 
viewed  with  disfavor  certain  wind-blown  oil  spots  on  his  cor 
duroys.  He  punched  Wiseman  with  his  thumb. 

"Hi!"  he  said.    "  'Sail  on — sail  on — sail  on — sail  on!'  " 

Wiseman  eyed  him  with  mild  reproach,  but  thrust  out  his 
head  for  the  bit.  Rainboldt  swung  lightly  to  the  saddle  and 
rode  out  at  a  footpace,  southward  through  the  glowing  sun. 

The  horse  was  slender  and  sleek  and  glossy-dun,  broad  be 
tween  the  eyes,  deep-shouldered,  short-coupled;  his  legs  were 
dainty,  flat-boned,  black-barred,  his  neck  arched.  A  brown 
stripe  lay  along  his  back  and  down  his  shoulders ;  f oretop  and 
mane  and  tail  were  long  and  heavy  and  black.  The  rider  was 
something  under  thirty,  slender  and  tall  and  brown.  His 
supple  body  swayed  with  easy  and  unconscious  mastery. 
Every  move  of  the  man  was  coordinated,  quick  and  sure;  he 
bore  himself  joyously;  youth  danced  in  his  eyes. 

But  the  face,  bold  and  pleasing,  was  yet  in  some  way  oddly 
older  than  his  body;  lightly  lined,  alert,  holding  something  in 
reserve — the  face  of  a  man  steeled  by  adversity.  A  mouth  fit 
for  laughter,  capable  and  generous,  was  schooled  to  quietness ; 
the  keen  dark  eyes  had  a  trick  of  quiet  watchfulness. 

To  the  left,  far  below,  bare  and  white  and  blinding,  the 
overwhelming  desert  stretched  away  and  away  to  a  line  of  dim 
and  misty  hills.  Rainboldt  knew  that  blistering  plain  to  be 
almost  water  level.  It  seemed  now,  as  he  looked  down  upon 
it,  uptilted  to  an  interminable  slope,  along  which  his  eye  toiled 
wearily — up,  up,  up,  till  those  far-off  misty  hills  on  the  farther 
verge  seemed  the  very  rooftree  of  the  world. 

He  rode  sidelong  athwart  a  tremendous  and  hill-strewn 
slope,  wide-flung  between  the  horns  of  a  crescent  range,  fol 
lowing  an  old  road  across  an  endless  succession  of  long, 
straight  ridges,  with  shallow  draws  between,  plunging  head 
long  to  the  glaring  levels  below. 

The  granite-born  soil — yellow,  tough,  compact  and  firm — 
rang  under  the  shod  hoofs.  The  wide  road,  untraveled  now, 
had  once  been  traveled  greatly,  bitten  deep  into  the  narrow 
ridges ;  always  it  edged  upward,  elbowing  between  sharp,  bleak 
hills. 


200  WEST    IS    WEST 

Behind,  the  northern  horn  of  mountain  was  square  and  grim, 
flat-topped,  breast  and  square  shoulders  wrapped  with  the 
deep  black  of  cedar  and  pinon,  the  square  head  crowned  with 
misty  pine.  To  the  right,  beyond  and  above  the  knobbed  and 
bouldered  foothills,  swept  a  long  curve  of  wave-edged  ridge — 
smooth,  rounded,  granite  brown,  granite  yellow,  granite  pink — 
bare,  save  for  glossy-green  dots  of  mountain  laurel,  the  olive 
gray  blotches  that  were  clumps  of  scrub  oak. 

A  slender  and  symmetrical  cone  of  golden  granite,  at  the 
south,  soared  high  and  gleaming  above  that  long  ridge,  and 
ended  it;  beyond,  a  deep-cut  notch,  sharp  and  very  narrow, 
V-shaped,  opened  the  only  window  to  the  west.  And  then 

The  farther  horn  of  that  great  crescent  swung  away,  south 
and  east,  a  titanic  and  crenelated  parapet,  shining  and  sheer, 
fantastic,  glorious,  incredible.  So  lately  that  the  knife-sharp 
edges  were  yet  unblunted,  central  fires  had  thrust  that  stupen 
dous  mass  through  the  torn  crust  of  earth,  all  at  once  and 
violently,  incandescent,  glowing,  cooling  to  spire  and  spine, 
needle  and  lance,  tower  and  dome ;  rose-edged,  tawny  in  the 
shadows,  golden  in  the  sun,  inky  black  in  cleft  and  gorge. 

The  traveler  threaded  the  last  foothills  and  came  out  to 
the  upper  reaches,  below  the  mountain  proper;  the  road  bore 
straight  for  the  great  notch,  the  only  practicable  pass. 

Wiseman  cocked  up  his  ears  and  whinnied  softly.  Rain- 
boldt  brought  his  eyes  back  from  the  southward  crest,  fol 
lowed  the  pricking  ears,  and  became  aware  of  a  man  on  a 
dust-colored  horse,  toiling  up  the  next  ridge.  Rainboldt  crossed 
over  and  came  there  to  a  well-traveled  road.  He  curled  his 
leg  over  his  saddle  horn  and  waited.  The  newcomer  joined 
him;  a  tall  man  with  a  long  nose,  a  long  mustache  and  a 
long,  serious  face. 

"Howdy !"  said  Rainboldt.  "Do  you  live  far  about  her  to 
do  any  good?" 

"Seldom  ever,"  said  the  tall  man.  "How's  your  health  this 
evenin',  or  ain't  it?  I  never  saw  you  look  better." 

"Got  the  makings  ?" 

"Seguro!     Help  yourself." 

Rainboldt  rolled  a  smoke  and  puffed  luxuriantly.  Then  he 
said: 

"Excuse  me,  sir,  but  could  you  tell  me  where  I'm  going?" 


DICK  CAME  TO   SAN  CLEMENTE     201 

"Easy.     You're  going  to  supper  with  me." 

Rainboldt's  face  was  wooden  and  his  eye  was  vacant. 

"Supper?"  he  said  slowly.  "Supper.  ...  I  wonder  what 
that  is?  What  is  that?" 

The  tall  man  grinned  joyously. 

"I  got  you,  Steve!  You've  been  meanderin'  down  the  east 
side.  And  you  haven't  seen  anybody  or  anything  to  eat." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  saw  a  man  some  time  last  week.  And 
I  been  shootin'  cottontails.  I  had  matches,  and  found  some 
salt,  one  place." 

''Come  along  with  me.  Emil  James  is  the  name.  Glad  to 
meet  you." 

"I'm  Dick  Rainboldt.  I'm  glad  to  be  met.  I'm  glad  to 
meet  anybody.  Say,  I  want  to  speak  to  you  a  minute.  Over 
here." 

He  rode  to  one  side ;  he  glanced  anxiously  round  at  the  tow 
ering  mountains  and  the  immensity  of  desert;  he  lowered  his 
voice. 

"Explain !"  he  said,  in  a  sepulchral  whisper.  "What's  hap 
pened?  I  can  bear  it.  Let  me  know  the  worst.  Tell  me!" 

"'Explain'?" 

"Everything."  Dick  waved  his  hand  grandly.  "Why 
haven't  I  seen  a  man  since  I  left  the  Mai  Pais,  and  an  empty 
ranch  house  every  so  often  ?  Why  did  I  find  a  ghostly,  ghastly 
mining  camp,  all  full  of  rusted  engines  and  machinery,  with 
the  windows  rattling  and  the  doors  squeaking;  stone  shacks 
along  the  hills,  with  flat  roofs  and  them  falling  in;  a  million 
wagon  roads  all  crisscross,  with  grass  grown  up  in  the  ruts; 
and  prospect  holes  with  rotten  timbers ;  a  row  of  wagon  roads 
all  side  by  each,  straight  down  an  upandicular  mountain  where 
no  wagon  could  possibly  get  up,  not  if  it  was  ever  so — every 
thing.  Tell  me.  I  never  felt  so  darned  ignorant  before,  not 
in  my  whole  life." 

Emil  James  laughed  indulgently. 

"It's  a  right  smart  step  to  supper,  brother.  Let's  ride.  I'll 
educate  you  as  we  go  along." 

"First  of  all,  what  you  call  them  mountains?"  Dick  jerked 
his  chin  to  southward. 

"La  Fantasia." 


202  WEST    IS    WEST 

"Dream  Mountains  was  my  guess.  Pretty  close  guess, 
what?  Some  hills!" 

"  'Some  hills'  is  right,"  said  Emil  James  lovingly.  "I  guess 
yes.  Let  me  introduce  San  Clemente  Gap — and  the  big  fellow 
all  alone,  no'th  of  the  Gap,  that's  San  Clemente  Peak.  There 
isn't  any  name,  rightly,  for  the  rest  of  it  till  you  get  to  Old 
Pinetop,  where  all  your  steep  wagon  roads  was.  Wood 
roads,  them  was,  hauling  to  the  Sunol  mine,  where  the  win 
dows  rattled.  The  paisanos  would  creep  up  the  ridges  mebbe 
three  or  six  miles  to  the  west,  shin  up  a  low  place  to  the 
eavestrough,  worry  back  east  till  they  came  opposite  the  Sunol, 
chain  a  load  of  wood  on,  lock  all  four  wheels,  say  a  prayer, 
shut  their  eyes,  and  slide  down.  Twelve  miles  up  and  one 
mile  back." 

"I  savvy!  And  every  time  it  rained  the  old  road  would 
gully  out  so  bad  they'd  have  to  make  a  new  one.  Yes  indeedy ! 
And  silver  went  down?" 

"And  silver  went  down.  It  did  so.  Tumultaneous  with  that 
the  camp  went  up.  No  flowers.  This  was  once  as  lively  a 
little  corner  as  you  might  wish  to  see.  The  Sunol  might 
mebbe  have  kept  on  producin' — they  had  some  gold,  too — but 
they  struck  heap  water  and  blowed  the  roll  pumping  it." 

"And  now,"  prompted  Dick,  "about  the  hundred-and-some- 
odd  miles  of  cattle  and  nary  a  man?" 

"Cattle  don't  drift  north.  They  can't  cross  the  desert — too 
far  enough  to  the  first  water,  and  none  there.  'Way,  'way 
south  there's  some  Texas  lads  with  leased  land  and  fence 
strung  nearly  part  way  across.  So  our  stuff  can't  go  south 
either.  The  main  range  is  so  straight  up  and  down  that  the 
birds  go  round — and  every  little  canon  is  fenced  in  the  nar 
rowest  place — so  the  cattle  can't  get  west.  Except  right  here 
at  San  Clemente  Pass.  Bein'  as  San  Clemente  town — big 
copper  camp — is  right  beyond  the  Pass,  we  just  natchally  quit 
our  ranches  and  come  up  here  where  it  would  be  handy  to 
play  poker  and  get  married,  and  things  like  that." 

Rainboldt  rubbed  his  thumb  along  his  slender  brown  mus 
tache  and  rolled  a  preternaturally  wise  eye  skyward. 

"No,  sir,  you're  mistaken.  The  boys  don't  steal  cattle  any 
more,"  said  Emil  pensively.  "I  don't  know  why.  Just  isn't 
fashionable  now.  I  was  strong  against  it  at  first,  but  after  all 


DICK  CAME  TO   SAX  CLEMENTE     203 

maybe  it's  about  as  good  a  way  as  any.  The  stock  can't  get 
away;  they  might  as  well  be  on  an  island.  So  we  work  'em 
twice  a  year,  and  each  fellow  only  gets  his  own.  You  don't 
get  rich  so  fast — but  then  you  don't  get  poor  so  fast,  either." 

"We-e-ell,  it  might  work,"  conceded  Dick  doubtfully.  "And 
so  you  all  live  in  San  Clemente?" 

"Not  so  as  you  could  notice  it.  Sometimes,  when  we  get 
hard  up,  we  slip  over  there  and  work  in  the  mines  a  few  days. 
But  there's  a  strike  on  now.  No,  sir;  we  live  over  on  this 
side,  strung  along  right  against  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  at 
the  little  springs.  Sheltered  from  the  big  southwest  winds 
here,  you  see.  That's  what  dries  up  the  grass,  them  winds ; 
and  they  don't  strike  in  the  hills  and  canons  and  parks,  up 
under  the  main  mountain;  hop  right  over.  So  we  have  some 
green  grass  all  the  year  round.  That  keeps  our  saddle  horses 
fat  and  contented,  so  they  don't  wander  round.  We  have  it 
pretty  soft;  plenty  scrub  oak  for  wood,  nothing  much  to  do 
but  make  our  little  gardens,  and  maybe  ride  round  and  grease 
windmills  once  a  week." 

"Or  ten  days?"  suggested  Dick. 

"Or  ten  days.  Then  we  have  our  little  old  mountain  to  look 
at,  too.  That  helps."  His  eye  lingered  along  those  happy 
battlements.  "Sightliest  spot  in  the  world,  I  guess,  and  all  the 
better  for  that  out  yonder."  He  jerked  his  thumb  over  his 
shoulder,  without  looking,  to  indicate  the  blistering  desert. 
"The  hill  ain't  nigh  so  fine  from  San  Clemente.  They're  two 
or  three  thousand  feet  farther  up  in  the  air  than  we  are  on 
this  side.  Nobody  minds  lopin'  three  or  four  mile  to  town 
after  a  match,  or  to  get  the  mail;  but  we  wouldn't  exactly 
live  there.  Cast  your  eye  along  that  bunch  of  three-cornered 
parks  leaning  along  the  hill,  and  you'll  begin  to  see  where  we 
live,  about  one  ranch  to  each  park." 

"I  see  'em,"  said  Dick.  "You  don't  know  nobody  that  don't 
want  to  hire  nobody  that  don't  want  to  work,  do  you?" 

"Slim  chance.  There's  just  about  enough  of  us  for  a  full 
crew.  But  you're  mighty  welcome  to  hole  up  with  me  till  the 
wagon  starts  next  full.  Maybe-so  you  might  catch  on  some- 
wheres,  here  or  on  the  West  Side." 

"How  about  the  mines?     I  can  swing  a  sledge  some." 

"Aw,  you  don't  want  to  do  that.     Cousin  Jock  and  Taffy, 


204  WEST   IS   WEST 

they're  striking  for  a  little  more  money — which  maybe  they 
don't  deserve,  I  dunno — and  for  a  lot  more  props  in  the  work 
ings  which  they  certain-1  double-e  ought  to  get.  We  want  the 
strikers  to  win.  Them  mines  ain't  even  half  safe.  Rotten 
shame!  The  owners  tried  to  work  Mexicans  a  while.  But 
even  a  Greaser  can  see  that  them  Welshmen  are  dead  right 
about  the  timbering  so  they  mostly  quit.  Not  such  a  bad  lot, 
the  paisanos" 

"Any  rough  stuff?" 

"We-ell,  no,  not  to  speak  of.  There  might  be  if  the  sign 
was  just  right.  I  hear  about  some  imported  gunmen  maybe 
a-comin' — a  bunch  of  strike  breakers  they  used  in  the  coal 
mines  at  Cerrillos  and  Gallup.  If  they  come  to  San  Clemente 
— good-night,  nurse!  These  red-headed  people  here  ain't  no 
coal  miners." 

"How  about  broncos?"  asked  Rainboldt.  "Can't  lay  up  with 
you  a-tall  unless  I  can  earn  my  keep — and  I'd  sure  like  to 
stay  here  long  enough  to  take  a  look  at  that  old  mountain.  I 
can  break  bronc's." 

"You're  on." 

"Home  again !"  said  Dick.    "What  brand  do  you  give?" 

"Square  and  Compass.  Some  calls  it  the  X  Diamond  X. 
Real  malicious  people  call  it  the  Pig-Pen  brand.  Come  round 
on  this  side/  and  you'll  see  it  on  my  horse's  thigh.  And 
there's  my  shack  peeping  up,  the  one  nighest  the  Pass." 

"Any  of  the  old  M  T  boys  settled  down  here,  maybe?" 

Emil  shook  his  head. 

"Shucks!  I  was  hoping  there  might  be.  I  been  working 
for  the  M  T  since  I  was  knee-high  to  a  hoppergrass.  Good 
outfit." 

"Wanted  to  get  out  and  see  the  world?" 

"No-o,  not  exactly.  You  see,  I  didn't  think  they  done  me 
just  right.  They  stopped  my  pay,  they  took  my  mount  away 
from  me,  and  they  barred  me  from  the  chuck  wagon.  Then  I 
got  mad  and  quit.  Yes,  sir,  quit  'em  cold !" 

"Don't  blame  you  one  bit!"  said  Emil  warmly. 

"There  was  something  said  about  a  yearling,  I  believe.  And 
the  young  gentleman  that  said  it,  I  never  had  liked  his  nose. 
So  I  fixed  it.  He  was  the  Old  Man's  nephew — is  yet. 


DICK  CAME  TO  SAN  CLEMENTE     205 

Then  I  borrowed  his  gun,  too,  a  little  later — five  or  ten  sec 
onds,  say.  I  think  maybe  that  had  something  to  do  with  the 
Old  Man  treating  me  the  way  he  did.  I  kind  of  hate  it,  too," 
Dick  confessed  soberly.  "You  don't  find  many  like  the  Old 
Man.  Sometimes  I  almost  wish  the  Old  Man  had  been  an  only 
child." 


CHAPTER    XXIV 

LAND    OF    AFTERNOON 

"BuT,  lovely  lady,  dear,  you  simply  must  make  a  choice," 
expostulated  Pierre  Hines,  with  the  firm  emphasis  of  one  who 
voices  a  finality.  He  lay  on  his  back  in  the  short  yellow  turf, 
his  hands  clasped  behind  his  head.  "The  girls  are  willing 
you  should  have  your  pick — stranger  within  the  gates,  hos 
pitable  rites,  that  sort  of  thing — but  you're  overdoing  it, 
really.  They've  been  wonderfully  nice  to  you.  Strangely  so, 
I  thought  at  first.  But  calm  reflection  shows  me  the  reason. 

We're  such  a  fine  bunch  that  any  one  of  us Judy,  you're 

not  listening!" 

"Oh-h !"  breathed  Miss  Elliott.  She  sat  up  in  the  hammock. 
White  forms  flashed  swallow-swift  on  the  court  below,  a  white 
ball  shot  back  and  forth  across  the  net.  The  girl's  dusky 
face  sparkled,  her  eyes  snapped  with  excitement,  as  she  fol 
lowed  the  ball.  The  rally  ended.  "Oh !"  she  said  again. 
"Poor  old  Billy!  He  tried  so  hard  for  that  point!  It's  a 
shame!"  She  cuddled  back  in  her  cushions  and  retrieved  a 
silken  ankle. 

"Fifteen-forty.  If  Alf  wins  this  it  will  be  game  and  set," 
said  Dowlin,  unemotional,  massive  and  blond,  camped  cross- 
legged  on  a  boulder  at  Miss  Elliott's  feet.  "But  he  hasn't 
won  it  yet.  Billy  always  plays  his  best  when  he  has  to." 

The  tennis  court  was  terraced  at  the  base  of  a  little  natural 
ampitheater.  The  hammock  swung  beneath  two  chance  juni 
pers  on  the  hillside ;  beyond  the  court  flaunted  a  gay  marquee, 
crowded  with  joy  and  laughter.  Clustered  homes  of  "Chat- 
auqua,"  the  North  Side,  the  San  Clemente  of  ease  and  of 
leisure,  peeped  from  subsidized  greenery  roundabout;  business 
San  Clemente  huddled  along  the  narrow  canon  below;  work- 

206 


LAND    OF   AFTERNOON          207 

ing  San  Clemente — stone,  adobe  and  box-house — straggled  on 
the  southern  hillside,  where  deep-cut  wagon  roads  twisted 
and  turned  to  the  widely  scattered  mines  on  the  long  slopes. 
Far  above,  the  golden  crest  of  Fantasia  Mountain  overhung 
them  all. 

"Thirty-forty!"  Miss  Elliott  clutched  the  edges  of  the 
hammock  and  chanted  under  her  breath.  "Go  it,  Willyum! 
Oh,  it's  a  fault!  Dear,  dear!" 

"Yes,  yes;  what  is  it?"  said  Hines  soothingly. 

"Shut  up,  will  you?  Oh,  it's  a  beaut!  He  was  expecting 
A  slow  one  for  the  second  serve.  Back,  Billy ;  back !  Run  up, 
Billy!  Watch  out!  Oh,  dear!  Oh!  A-h-h!  Deuce!" 

"Alf  will  hear  you,"  said  Dowlin  mildly.  "If  he  does,  he 
may  imagine  that  you  want  Billy  to  win.  You're  not  allowed 
to  talk  to  the  ball,  or  to  influence  it  in  any  way.  Be  calm !" 

"You  can't  stop  her,  Ed.  She  always  unburdens  her  mind. 
It  is  that  precaution  which  inspired  the  simple  villagers  to 
call  her  'Little  Miss  Fixit'  before  she  had  been  here  a  week." 

"They  call  you  Tretty  Pierre'!"  retorted  Miss  Fixit. 
""Hush !  I  want  to  watch." 

"Judith  Elliott!"  said  Pierre  severely.  "Pay  attention  to 
me  !  Leave  that  silly  game  alone,  will  you  ?  I  am  urging  you, 
aiding  you,  to  make  a  wise  decision ;  a  quick  one,  anyhow.  You 
owe  it  to  us — to  me.  Those  nice  Danish  girls  at  the  Memphis 
-mine,  now,  the  little  one  in  particular — Elsa,  the  one  with  the 
flaxy  hair  and  the  slate-colored  eyes  with  little  gold  flecks  in 
'em — say,  Ju,  that  child  is  a  wiz!  If  you're  really  going  to 
turn  me  down,  make  it  a  quick  one.  Little  ii.lsa " 

"  'Vantage,  by  heck !"  said  Dowlin.  "Old  Bill  will  pull  it 
off  yet !" 

"Did  you  say  specs?"  asked  Miss  Elliott  sweetly.  "Eye 
glasses  ?" 

"Flecks.  Not  spec's.  Little  gold  flecks — little  gold  devils 
— makin'  a  bally  fool  of  a  fellow." 

"Good  for  Bill !    He  made  it!"  cried  Miss  Elliott. 

"One  set  each,"  said  Dowlin.     "Now  for  the  rubber." 

"Ed,"  said  Hines  reproachfully,  "you  chatter  too  much.  Be 
quiet,  won't  you.  I  would  speak  winged  words  to  this  scorn 
ful  lady." 

"If  you  ask  me,"  said  Judith,  "I  think  that  Watterson  boy 


208  WEST    IS    WEST 

can  put  it  all  over  Billy  at  tennis.  I  only  saw  him  play  once 
— the  terrible  day  that  poor  old  Van  was  murdered.  But  he 
played  like  a  fiend.  We  must  try  him  out  when  he  gets  back 
from  the  ranch." 

"Miss  Judith/'  said  Pierre  earnestly,  "leave  the  boy  alone. 
You  try  out  too  many  of  us.  Sometimes  I  think  that  you  do 
not  appreciate  your  privileges.  Here  you  have  practically  all 
the  Emerged  Tenth  on  the  waiting  list;  all  the  men  that  count, 
or  that  have  anything  much  to  count ;  the  Tired  Business  Man, 
the  Retired  Ditto,  the  Only  Son,  the  Flanneled  Fool,  and 
others  too  humorous  to  mention.  5\lso  Edward  Dowlin,  here 
present,  otherwise  known  as  the  Abysmal  Brute  or  the  Blond 
Beast  .  .  .  and  me  !  Choose,  be-yutiful  stranger,  choose ! 
Do  it  now !" 

"Flanneled  yourself!"  said  the  beautiful  stranger. 
' 'Flanneled'?      Me?      Madam,   I   would   have  you  to  dis 
tinctly  wot — 

"To  deliberately  split  an  infinitive,"  said  Miss  Elliott  coldly, 
"is  to  wantonly  imperil  your  soul.  It  is  almost  as  bad  as  to 
profanely  swear." 

"Coises  !"  Pierre  clutched  at  his  heart.  "Woman !  False 
and  fatal  beauty!  I  would  have  you  know  that  I  am  always 
fitly  apparreled  to  suit  the  occasion.  Correct  attire  is  my  one 
hobby." 

"Like  the  farmer  with  one  besetting  hen  ?"  suggested  Judith. 

"Cruel  and  unkind !  You  could  always  be  proud  of  my 
clothes,  at  least.  It  would  serve  you  right  if  you  married  a 
common  workingman!  But  no,  I  forgive  you.  Forget  them 
hasty  woids.  And  I  beseech  you,  child,  never  make  that  mis 
take  !  Shun,  oh  shun,  the  man  who  works !  Work  is  a  sucker's 
game.  No  one  ever  makes  any  money  until  he  has  abandoned 
that  disgusting  habit!" 

"Idiot!"  said  Judith,  dimpling  with  mirth. 

"Ah,  you  may  well  blush !  I  have  marked  you,  madam.  I 
have  seen  you  making  eyes  at  the  stage  driver,  at  the  assayer, 
even  at  the  blacksmith!  Men  with  no  taste  in  dress  what 
ever!" 

"Blue  overalls  are  always  in  fashion,"  observed  the  Abysmal 
Brute. 

"Dowlin,  you  grow  more  garrulous  daily.  Check  yourself* 


LAND   OF   AFTERNOON          209 

I  have  warned  you  once  already.  And  you  quite  miss  the 
philosophy  of  dress.  The  white  collar — the  polished  shoes — 
the  spotless  gloves — what  are  these  for  but  to  advertise  to  all 
that  their  owner  is  above  the  degrading  necessity  of  work? 
When,  added  to  this,  one  follows  closely  every  detail  of  the 
changing  fashion,  it  proclaims  aloud  that  one  is " 

"Cut  out  the  swear  words,  Pierre,"  advised  Miss  Judith, 
twinkling.  "We  know  what  you  mean.  We  agree  with  you." 

" person  of  refinement,  culchaw  and  intelligence.     Like 

myself.  Look  at  me !  My  enthusiasm  prompts  me  to  sit  up. 
Pardon  me !" 

Pierre  sat  up,  his  Norman  hawk's  face  sparkling  with  that 
enthusiasm;  he  brushed  back  his  blond  pompadour  with  slim 
fingers.  "When  corded  vests  are  the  thing,  my  vests  are 
corded ;  when  fashion  says  detachable  cuffs,  undetachable  cuffs, 
or  non-undetachable  cuffs,  I  am  in  line.  My  galluses " 

"Pierre  Hines !" 

"Well,  then ! — The  roll  of  a  coat,  one  button,  two  or  three  ; 
the  curve  or  width  of  a  hat-brim;  the  peg-top,  the  straight- 
front;  if  you  want  to  know  what's  what,  watch  me.  Or 
Alf." 

"Alf  is  barred  out,"  said  the  Abysmal  Brute  mildly.  "I 
draw  the  line  somewhere.  Alf  is  hereby  black-balled." 

"Good !  Now  we're  making  progress,"  gloated  Pierre.  "Not 
to  be  outdone  in  generosity,  I'll  eliminate  the  Only  Son.  I'll 
tell  you  what,  Ed:  don't  you  give  me  away,  and  I  won't  tell 
on  you.  But  we'll  both  give  absent  treatment  to  the  absent, 
all  except  Charming  Billy.  Then  I'll  draw  straws  with  you 
to  see  who  fights  it  out  with  Billy.  We  won't  leave  it  with 
Miss  Elliott,  of  course.  That  wouldn't  be  fair.  Let  chance 
decide  it.  Winner  to  catch  hands  with  Billy,  dance  round 
Miss  Judy — discreetly — and  sing: 

Oranges  and  lemons, 

The  Bells  of  Saint  Clemens/ 

Then  she  can  guess.    Let  us  hope  she  doesn't  get  a  lemon." 

Billy  won  a  glorious  victory ;  and  Pierre  Hines  walked  home 
with  Miss  Elliott. 


210  WEST    IS    WEST 

"Judith,"  he  said  at  the  gate,  "I  want  to  tell  you  some 
thing."  He  hesitated  a  moment.  Then  he  shrugged  his  shoul 
ders,  Spanish  fashion.  "You'll  think  I'm  a  conceited  ass — at 
first — but  I'm  not,  really.  You'll  see,  when  you  think  it  over. 
Not  in  this  case,  anyhow.  But  I  do  think  you  ought  to  know 
what  it  was  that  I  didn't  want  Ed  to  give  away  on  me." 

"What  is  it,  Pretty — murder?" 

"Worse  than  that,"  said  Hines  cheerfully.  "Lungs.  My 
father  had  'em.  So  now  you  know  why  I  rattle  on  so.  Like  a 
boy  whistlin'  in  the  dark." 

"Perry !     And  I  never  guessed." 

"You  wouldn't.  I've  been  out  here  four  years.  Good  old 
climate  has  patched  me  up  till  I  can  almost  pass  for  a  man. 
Sounds  like  whimperin',  doesn't  it?  It's  not  so  bad  as  it  seems, 
though — honestly  it  isn't.  But  I  haven't  the  brains  for  head 
work,  you  see,  or  maybe  I've  only  got  too  much  money.  It's 

only  fair  that  I  should  envy Lord,  Judy,  there  isn't  a 

miner  or  a  freighter  that  I  don't  envy !  I  don't  count.  There, 
damn  it,  this  is  exactly  what  I  didn't  want  to  say  or  sing  or 
snivel,  not  on  a  bet.  Makin'  a  pitiful  donkey  of  myself!" 

"You're  not,  you're  not!  Are  you  afraid,  Perry — in  the 
dark?" 

Pretty  Pierre  threw  his  shoulders  back  and  snapped  his 
fingers. 

"Not  that  much — not  a  scare!  You  remember  that  wise 
saying  of  Mark  Twain's:  'How  hard  it  is  that  we  have  to  die 
— a  strange  complaint  to  come  from  the  mouths  of  people  who» 
have  had  to  live/  '  Then  he  made  a  wry  face.  "I'll  be  hon 
est  with  you,  kid.  We  talk  a  heap  of  drivel,  Judy,  you  and  I, 
especially  you — but  I  know  you've  got  good  hard  sense  behind 
the  fluff,  and  you  won't  misunderstand. — Not  a  bit  scared. 
But  gee,  kid,  it's  lonesome — in  the  dark !  I  gotta  keep  a-whis- 
tlin* !" 


CHAPTER 

EARLY  HISTORY  OP  A  DOLLAR 

"DiCK,  you  don't  have  to  keep  working  all  the  time/'  said 
Emil  James.  "You  got  them  three  broncos  pretty  well  gentled. 
That  entitles  you  to  the  eats  for  quite  some  time.  You  don't 
manage  more'n  two  or  three  pounds  of  steak  at  a  meal,  any 
way.  Regular  canary  bird,  you  are.  What  say  we  play  Sun 
day  for  a  while?" 

"Right  as  rain/'  said  Dick.  "Those  bronc's  are  getting 
drawed,  anyhow.  Couple  days'  rest  won't  hurt  'em.  I'll  han 
dle  'em  a  little  night  and  mornin',  so  they  don't  forget.  They 
sure  like  to  be  rubbed  and  curried !" 

"I'm  going  over  to  town.    Want  to  side  me?" 

"Not  to-day.  I'll  get  old  Wiseman  and  shoe  him/'  said 
Dick.  "This  evening  I'm  going  up  in  the  high  country.  It 
looks  mighty  cool  and  pleasant  there,  when  the  cliffs  begin  to 
shade  this  side.  I've  been  wanting  to  go  look,  but  not  bad 
enough  to  ride  any  wild  horses  up  there,  thank  you.  Ill  ride 
a  bronc  over  to  town  to-morrow,  and  buy  myself  some  duds." 

"You're  surely  one  wolf  for  dollin*  up,"  observed  Emil. 
"You've  been  washing  on  what  clothes  you've  got  ever  since 
you  came.  So-long!" 

Mid-afternoon  found  Dick  creeping  in  the  cool  shadows  of 
the  central  peaks.  He  rode  slowly;  lie  walked  at  the  steep 
pitches,  up  or  down ;  he  made  wary  choice  from  the  branching 
trails  that  twisted  along  the  boulder-strewn  hillside.  A  little 
bunch  of  deer  bounded  down  the  hill  and  disappeared.  Dick 
had  brought  no  gun  because  of  the  weight  in  the  hard  climb 
ing.  "Besides,"  he  confided  to  Wiseman,  "these  may  be  a  law 
on  them,  or  something." 

Dick  looked  out  across  the  wide;  dim  plain,  now  far  and  far 

211 


212  WEST    IS   .WEST 

below;  his  eye  strained  upward  to  the  slender  gleaming  pin 
nacles  at  whose  base  he  rode,  and  the  greater  peaks  to  south 
ward,  looming  now  to  incredible  beauty  through  the  misty 
shadows.  Bed  blossoms  of  ocatillo  and  cacti  flamed  about  him: 
and  low,  earth-clinging  flowers,  whose  names  he  did  not  know, 
peeped  up  through  the  grass ;  a  buncli  of  wild  phlox  was  knot 
ted  at  his  saddle-horn.  For  the  horn-string  was  unused.  Dick 
had  left  rope  behind  as  well  as  gun,  for  the  same  weighty  rea 
sons.  A  cloth-covered  canteen  hung  at  the  horn  in  the  rope's 
place. 

The  way  bent  level  before  him ;  the  reins  were  loose  on 
Wiseman's  neck ;  Dick  raised  his  voice,  full-throated,  and  woke 
the  startled  echoes: 

"OJif  I'll  drink  and  I'll  gamble,  I'll  be  gay  again, 
I'll  ride  the  old  fork-Up  in  the  branding  pen; 
I'll  rope  'em  and  throw  'em,  and  when  they  are  tied 
I'll  stamp  a  big  J  B  L  on  the  left  side." 

His  next  attempt  bespoke  a  desultory  mind ;  skipping  lightly 
across  half  a  world  and  half  a  thousand  years  to  a  joyous  and 
care-free  refrain,  high  and  quavering,  from  an  alien  tongue: 

"How  many  pretty  girls  you  have, 

Girafla  ! — G  irafle  / 
How  many  pretty  girls  you  have — 
Love  will  take  count  of  them!" 

The  stern  mouth  curved  now  to  an  unwonted  smile,  his  face 
softened,  musing  on  the  sweet  girl-mother — long  and  long  ago 
— who  had  sung  that  old  song  so  gayly. 

He  held  that  softened  and  better  mood  as  he  came  to  a  wide 
and  level  shoulder  of  hill.  He  took  off  the  bridle  and  left 
Wiseman  munching  the  tender  grasses;  he  looked  across  the 
deep  blue  valley  intervening  between  these  outlying  peaks  and 
the  main  range,  a  valley  which  culminated  in  a  high  and  steep 
pass  far  to  his  right.  He  threw  himself  on  the  velvet  turf 
and  looked  in  silence.  When  his  cigarette  burned  out,  a  frag 
ment  of  another  song — softly,  now — rose  unbidden  to  his  lips: 


EARLY  HISTORY  OF  A  DOLLAR    213 

"There  are  the  good  and  blest, 
Those  I  love  most  and  best: 
There,  too,  I  soon  shall  rest w 

"Hi!"  said  a  startled  voice. 

Rainboldt  leaped  to  his  feet  and  swept  off  his  sombrero. 
Down  the  trail  beyond  him  a  young  lady  stepped  briskly  from 
between  two  mighty  boulders;  a  young  lady  in  riding  attire, 
which  was  earth-stained  and  disheveled.  She  carried  a  slen 
der  wire-wound  quirt  of  Mexican  weave. 

"Water,  you  were  about  to  say?  I'll  get  it  for  you,"  said 
Dick.  "It's  on  my  saddle.  And  you've  had  an  accident?  Not 
hurt,  I  hope?"  He  held  out  the  canteen,  first  unscrewing  the 
top. 

"Thank  you.  No,  I'm  not  hurt  a  bit.  Except  my  feelings. 
They're  ruined.  If  you'll  excuse  me,  I'll  drink  first  and  tell 
you  afterward.  Dear  me,  what  a  very  jerky  conversation!" 

"That's  because  I'm  afraid — my  part  of  it,"  said  Dick 
gravely.  "Not  of  you,  you  know.  Of  girls."  He  waved  his 
hand  to  explain.  "Any  girls.  All  girls.  And  I  suppose 
you're  afraid  of  men.  Girls  are." 

"Not!"  supplemented  the  girl,  and  wrinkled  her  nose  at 
him.  Then:  "Oh,  my  soul!"  she  sighed.  "What  would  poor, 
dear  mamma  say  if  she  knew  I'd  made  a  face  at  a  perfect 
stranger  ?" 

"Me,  too,"  echoed  Dick,  mournfully  sympathetic.  "I  never 
behaved  this  way  before.  I  don't  know  what  is  getting  to  be 
the  matter  with  me — unless,  as  Topsy  said,  it's  my  wicked 
heart.  But  my  perfection  was  not  shocked  when  you  made 
the  face.  It  was  very  effective.  Not  the  nose  so  much — the 
dimples." 

"Upon  my  word !"  said  the  young  lady. 

"Why  don't  you  drink?     You  must  be  thirsty." 

"Look  the  other  way,  then,  I  haven't  learned  to  drink  from 
a  canteen  yet — not  gracefully." 

Dick  looked  the  other  way.  "Why,  drinking  from  a  can 
teen  is  easy,"  he  said.  "The  first  rule  is,  you  mustn't 
lallgh " 

The  girl  laughed  promptly,  with  disastrous  results.  There 
was  a  sound  of  spluttering  and  gurgling  and  of  splashing 


214  WEST    IS    WEST 

water.  "There!  See  what  you've  done !  You  made  me  choke 
myself — you  made  me  spill  it!" 

"I  didn't  want  to  do  it,"  observed  Dick,  with  a  decidedly 
musical  effect. 

The  young  lady  shot  a  suspicious  glance  at  him,  and  frowned 
slightly ;  but  the  young  man's  eyes  were  fixed  on  a  distant  hill 
with  a  gaze  so  innocent,  so  guileless,  and  so  unswervingly 
straightforward  that  she  broke  out  into  dimples  again. 

"That  wasn't  a  song,  however  it  sounded,"  she  remarked. 
"Now  you  keep  still  till  I  drink." 

A  brief  interval  followed. 

"Now  you  may  look,"  said  the  young  lady. 

Dick  looked.  He  saw  a  slim  and  girlish  form,  a  face  glow 
ing  with  youth  and  laughter,  dark  hair  under  the  upturned 
sombrero. 

"I  said  look,  not  stare." 

"A  wise  man  has  stated  that  any  man  is  entitled — without 
offense — to  take  two  looks  at  any  lady,"  said  Dick  firmly. 
"The  first  look,  as  an  ordinary  precaution,  to  avoid  the  possi 
bility  of  collision;  the  second,  of  appreciation.  I  stand  on  my 
rights." 

"Try  the  profile,"  advised  the  young  lady,  and  immediately 
made  herself  wooden,  with  outstretched  fingers  and  awkward 
arms. 

"Stop !  You're  turning  into  a  Dutch  doll !  Here,  you  want 
to  rest.  Wait  a  bit.  My  saddle  blanket  is  clean.  I'll  get  it 
for  you."  He  brought  the  blanket,  a  thick  Navajo,  and  folded 
it;  the  young  lady  sat  down  obediently.  Dick  returned,  car 
rying  the  saddle.  "Here  is  my  card,"  he  said  sedately,  and 
laid  his  finger  on  a  silver  oval  on  the  saddle  fork. 

"Richard  Rainboldt."  The  girl  read  the  engraved  name; 
she  rose  and  bobbed  a  curtsy.  "I  am  delighted  to  meet  you, 
Mr.  Rainboldt.  I  am  Judith  Elliott,  of  San  Clemente." 

Dick  bowed  gravely.  "Miss  Elliott!"  he  murmured.  "So 
pleased!"  As  the  girl  resumed  her  seat  on  the  Navajo,  he 
added : 

"But  San  Clemente  is  not  your  home?" 

"Oh,  no !  I've  only  been  there  a  month.  I  am  visiting  my 
cousins,  the  Armstrongs.  Do  you  know  them?" 

Dick  shook  his  head.    "I  only  came  here  a  week  ago,  and  I 


EARLY  HISTORY  OF  A  DOLLAR    215 

haven't  been  over  to  San  Clemente  yet.  You're  an  old-timer, 
compared  with  me.  But  about  your  accident  ?  I  suppose  your 
horse  is  not  close  by,  or  you  would  have  sent  me  after  him  at 
once.  Is  he  hurt?" 

"He  fell  down  and  got  loose,  and  ran  away.  'Pride  goeth 
before  destruction  and  an  haughty  spirit  before  a  fall.'  They 
warned  me  not  to  attempt  this  trail.  I  came  through  that  little 
gap  you  see  there."  She  pointed  back  to  the  high  notch  in 
the  southwest. 

"Some  trip  for  a  girl  to  make,  alone,  and  her  a  newcomer/* 
said  Rainboldt,  with  warm  admiration  in  his  voice.  "Haughty 
spirit  is  right,  I  guess.  But  they  shouldn't  have  let  you 
come." 

Miss  Elliott  turned  her  unrepentant  head. 

"They  don't  know.  I  started  as  if  I  were  going  on  the 
other  side,  and  slipped  round  camp  quietly.  I  was  visiting  at 
Van  Patten's  camp,  you  know." 

"I  don't  know  anything,"  said  Dick.  "I'm  but  a  stranger 
here — as  I  was  just  observing  when  you  arrived.  Heaven  is 
my  home." 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Elliott,  "Van  Patten's  is  a  sort  of  a  sum 
mer  camp — more  like  a  club  house.  Beautiful  place.  It  is 
almost  at  the  top  of  the  gap  on  the  other  side,  but  there's  a 
wagon  road  blasted  out  to  it.  I  knew  people  came  this  way 
sometimes.  So  I  came.  I  was  over  all  the  worst,  too,  when 
that  horse,  that " 

"Tormented?"  suggested  Dick. 

"Thank  you.  When  that  tormented  horse  stumbled  and 
rolled  downhill.  Not  stumbled  and  rolled  exactly — he  slipped 
on  a  smooth  stretch  of  rock  and  slid  downhill.  I  held  to  the 
rein,  but  he  jerked  away  and  ran — oh,  dear,  you  never  saw 
anything  like  it!" 

"If  he  went  back  to  camp,  your  friends  will  be  dreadfully 
alarmed/* 

"He  didn't.  He  went  straight  down  the  mountain,  clear  to 
the  foot,  in  a  cloud  of  dust.  He  started  a  big  boulder  to  roll 
ing  as  he  got  up,  poor  dear!"  said  Miss  Elliott,  relenting. 
"I  suppose  that  scared  him  and  made  him  run,  and  his  running 
started  more  boulders  and  little  rocks,  and  that  made  him  run 
faster,  and  so  he  started  more  rolling  stones,  and  so  on  and 


216  WEST    IS   WEST 

on  and  on.  'Twas  a  grand  spectacle.  But  oh  and  ah!  .  .  . 
'How  different  from  the  home  life  of  our  own  dear  queen!' 
as  the  English  lady  said." 

"How  far  back  was  this?" 

Miss  Elliott  pointed.    "About  two  miles,  I  guess." 

"But  why  didn't  you  go  back?" 

"I  had  started  to  come  this  way,"  said  Miss  Elliott  re- 
belliously. 

Mr.  Rainboldt  gazed  at  her  with  marked  respect. 

"You  shall  do  that  little  thing,"  he  declared  seriously.  "You 
can  take  old  Wiseman,  when  you're  rested.  I'll  trot  alongside 
to  fetch  him  back.  And  your  horse  will  be  all  right.  He'll 
stop  with  a  bunch  of  saddle  horses,  and  they'll  get  him  at  some 
of  the  ranches." 

"Where  are  the  ranches?"  demanded  Miss  Elliott. 

"Why,  haven't  you  seen  them?  Look  right  at  the  very  foot 
of  the  main  hill — look  close.  You  can  see  three  from  here. 
Watch  for  the  bright  green — that's  the  cottonwoods.  Then 
you  can  see  the  houses  and  corrals  close  beside." 

"Oh-h!"  said  Miss  Elliott,  and  her  eyes  widened.  "Why-y! 
The  trees  look  like  little  green  feathers,  and  the  corrals — 
why,  they  look  like  little  work-baskets  !" 

"They've  a  right  to  look  small.  I  reckon  they're  a  good 
half  mile  straight  down,  or  near  it." 

"This  is  the  life!"  said  Miss  Elliott  cheerfully.  "But  I 
haven't  thanked  you  for  your  kind  offer  to  take  me  home — 
which  is  hereby  gratefully  accepted.  Only  for  my  high  heels, 
though,  I'd  go  on  foot,  in  the  spirit  of  the  Dutch  miner  who 
wasted  his  substance  in  riotous  living  and  walked  home  in  the 
dust  behind  the  wagon — you  know  the  story,  perhaps?" 

"Yes.  He  made  use  of  an  expression.  He  said:  'Walk, 
you  expressioned  Dutchman — walk!  Walk — expression — 
walk!" 

Miss  Judith  nodded  vigorously.  "That's  the  way  I  felt. 
For  I  should  have  ridden  round  above  that  bad  place.  It  was 
absolutely  glassy.  I  knew  at  the  time  that  I  was  taking  a 
chance,  but  I  was  too  lazy  to  make  the  detour.  But,  dear  me, 
perhaps  I  am  keeping  you  from  your  business — your  work?" 

"On  the  contrary,  dear  me,  I  have  not  a  single  business  on 
Land.  I  came  up  here  for  a  look-see — strictly  for  pleasure." 


EARLY  HISTORY  OF  A  DOLLAR    217 

"Oh,  Mr.  Rainboldt— and  I've  spoiled  it!" 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  it  in  that  light  exactly,"  said  Mr.  Rain 
boldt. 

Miss  Elliott  rose  briskly.  "Well,  we'd  better  be  going.  I'm 
rested  now.  Your  boot  heels  are  not  much  better  for  walking 
than  mine  are.  Oh,  the  vanity  of  men!" 

"Right  about  the  vanity,  but  wrong  in  the  application,"  said 
Dick,  saddling  up.  "Cowmen  need  boot  heels  in  their  busi 
ness.  I'll  tell  you  as  we  go  along." 

But  he  did  not  tell  her  about  boot  heels.  They  traveled 
single  file  along  the  rough  trail,  with  only  a  word  of  caution  or 
encouragement  flung  back  over  Dick's  shoulder  for  all  conver 
sation.  When  they  came  to  better  going,  as  they  neared  San 
Clemente  Pass,  Dick  fell  back  and  walked  beside  with  a  hand 
in  Wiseman's  mane.  The  lady  was  preoccupied;  a  little  V- 
shaped  wrinkle  appeared  between  her  black  brows. 

"There's  where  I'm  staying — with  Emil  James,"  said  Dick, 
as  they  drew  even  with  the  Square  and  Compass  ranch." 

"Yes,  I  know  Mr.  James,"  said  Judith  absently.  The  young 
man  was  quick  to  sense  some  unexplained  change  from  their 
former  sprightly  footing.  It  was  the  girl  who  spoke  first. 

"You  won't  have  to  take  me  to  town,  Mr.  Rainboldt,"  she 
said.  "I've  just  remembered  that  the  stage — the  buckboard 
that  carries  the  mail,  I  mean — gets  to  San  Clemente  between 
six  and  seven.  I  can  wait  at  the  Gap  and  take  that.  Then 
you  won't  have  so  far  to  walk." 

"Why,  I'd  just  as  lief  take  you  all  the  way,  Miss  Elliott." 

"It  will  not  be  necessary,  thank  you." 

Rainboldt  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"You're  the  doctor.  We  won't  have  to  wait  long.  I've  seen 
the  mail  outfit  coming  for  half  an  hour." 

"Where?" 

Dick  pointed. 

"See  it?  Crawling  along  up  the  third  little  ridge?  No — 
liere,  coming  from  the  southeast." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

"I  was  hoping  you  wouldn't  think  of  it,"  said  Dick  truth 
fully. 

The  young  lady  made  no  response  to  this  little  remark.  Her 
face  glowed  like  a  ruby  in  the  sun.  When  the  blush  died  away 


218  WEST    IS    WEST 

she  knitted  her  brows  again,  as  in  some  perplexity;  seeing 
which,  Dick  strode  on  ahead,  swinging  swiftly  down  the  last 
easy  slope. 

Their  trail  came  out  in  the  highest  point  in  San  Clemente 
Gap,  barely  wide  enough,  here,  for  the  wagon  road.  Judith 
dismounted  and  patted  Wiseman's  friendly  nose. 

"Tired?"  said  Dick  sympathetically. 

"Oh,  no!  You  must  be,  though/'  said  the  girl.  But  she 
seemed  ill  at  ease. 

"How  are  the  strikers  coming  on?"  asked  Dick,  in  a  per 
functory  attempt  to  make  conversation.  "Will  they  win  out, 
do  you  think?" 

"Oh,  dear  me,  I  don't  know,"  said  Judith  irritably.  "Mr. 
Spencer  is  going  to  have  men  from  the  outside.  Some  of  them 
have  come  already,  and  we're  afraid  there'll  be  trouble.  I 
don't  know  the  rights  of  it.  I'm  prejudiced,  I  guess.  My 
father  owns  stock  in  the  mine,  and  so  does  Uncle  Jim.  He 
owns  a  lot.  Uncle  Jim  is  J.  C.  Armstrong,  you  know." 

"No,  I  don't  know  any  one  on  the  west  side." 

"The  stage  is  nearly  here,"  said  Judith. 

"Oh,  it  will  be  ten  minutes  yet.  They  have  to  stop  and 
rest  coming  up  this  steep  hill." 

"Thank  you  very  much,  Mr.  Rainboldt.  You  have  been 
very  kind."  She  held  out  her  hand. 

In  speechless  wrath  and  astonishment  Rainboldt  saw  that 
she  was  offering  him  a  silver  dollar.  He  bent  his  head  with 
an  exaggerated  air  of  humility  and  gratitude.  "Oh,  thank 
you!"  he  said  sweetly.  He  took  the  coin  and  flung  it  away 
with  a  quick  jerk  of  the  wrist,  as  though  it  had  been  white- 
hot.  It  flashed  in  the  sunlight;  it  sailed  above  the  ocatillo 
bushes  and  fell  in  a  bushy-topped  cedar  far  below.  Good- 
day!" 

"Oh !"  said  Judith  faintly. 

He  took  off  his  hat,  bowed  low,  swung  into  the  saddle  and 
whirled  down  the  hill  at  a  brisk  trot,  bolt  upright,  his  hat  tip- 
tilted.  The  stage  toiled  up  the  slope. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Rainboldt !  Come  back !  Oh,  I'm  sorry !  I  didn't 
know !"  Judith  was  fairly  running  after  him  at  the  last  words ; 
her  voice  rose  as  she  ran.  Too  late  she  realized  the  full  enor- 


EARLY  HISTORY  OF  A  DOLLAR    219 

mity  of  her  offense.  She  stopped  with  one  hand  on  her  breast 
and  called  imploringly  to  Rainboldt's  implacable  back: 

"Come  back!    Please,  Mr.  Rainboldt!" 

Rainboldt  rode  on. 

A  vagrant  tear  splashed  down  her  flushed  cheek.  She  turned 
her  small  face  toward  San  Clemente  and  set  out  resolutely; 
she  clicked  her  small  teeth  together. 

"Walk,  damn  you,  walk!"  said  Judith. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

TINTED    NEWS 

MR.  ALFRED  SPENCER,  manager  of  the  Torpedo  mine,  sat 
in  his  room  and  perused  a  bulky  letter  which  had  reached 
him  by  the  last  mail.  He  read  it  attentively,  looking  up  from 
tame  to  time.  His  teeth,  in  the  lamplight,  were  bared  in  that 
false  and  sinister  smile  which  went  so  far  to  make  him  un- 
beloved. 

The  letter  was  interesting  as  to  matter:  the  date-mark  was 
El  Paso,  the  writer  was  that  Parker  who  had  been  rechris- 
tened  as  "Snipes"  by  Mr.  Crooknose  Evans,  and  the  letter  re 
counted  at  length  the  recent  exploits  of  Mr.  Evans  in  El 
Paso.  The  story  will  look  over  Mr.  Spencer's  shoulder  at 
the  last  paragraphs. 

"Well,  all  at  once,  the  Crooknose  guy  escapes  from  the 
hospital.  Supposed  to  be  hardly  able  to  get  about.  Police 
offer  five  hundred  reward:  but  to  my  notion  they  don't  want 
him.  Bought  off,  maybe.  Anyhow,  there's  some  damn  hocus- 
pocus  about  it.  This  cop,  Gannon,  he  had  a  crush  on  Crook- 
nose,  being  in  the  big  fight  with  him  and  all.  But  Travesy, 
he  wants  him  and  he  wants  him  bad.  He's  on  the  peck,  big 
ger  than  a  wolf.  And  he  offers  two  thousand  for  him,  cold 
cash.  Nice  piece  of  money,  what? 

"Well,  sir,  I  believe  you  and  me  can  get  it.  I  haven't  let 
on,  but  I  kept  my  ears  open.  The  girl's  father  come  down 
and  took  her  home:  and  it  seems  he  is  from  your  burg — name 
of  Quinn — little  sawed-off  Irish  red-head.  There  was  a  young 
fellow  with  him — uppity  chap  named  Murray — looked  like  a 
half-breed  and  acted  like  he  was  a  king  or  something — sassy 
as  hell.  And  there  was  another  guy,  a  regular  high-roller — 
bad  man,  I  guess — that  had  been  down  here  hitting  the  high 

220 


TINTED   NEWS  221 

places  for  some  time  before  ever  the  Crooknose  guy  blowed 
in.  And  look  you,  he  was  one  of  your  people  too — Steve 
Thompson.  You  must  surely  know  him:  every  one  in  this 
damn  town  knows  him,  and  they  all  shine  up  to  him  like 
he  was  the  gate-keeper  in  heaven,  and  they  was  tryin'  to 
work  him  for  a  rain-check. — Well,  sir,  them  two,  Murray  and 
Thompson — they  disappeared  the  same  time  that  Mr.  Smart 
Alec  Crooknose  did.  Got  that?  They  didn't  go  by  rail,  I'm 
sure  of  that.  My  notion  is  that  they  went  to  your  corner, 
cross-country. 

"I  bet  you  can  locate  him.  If  you  can,  tell  me  and  I'll  tell 
Travesy.  We'll  split  50-50.  No,  I  won't  double-cross  you. 
No,  you  won't  double-cross  me.  Damn  you,  you  dassent — I 
can  hang  you,  and  you  jolly  well  know  it. 

Let  me  hear  from  you  P.  D.  Q." 

Yours  for  the  stuff, 

WM.  PARKER. 

As  Mr.  Alfred  Spencer  considered  his  reply,  that  ominous 
smile  of  his  grew  positively  alarming.  He  was  not  in  the 
confidence  of  San  Clemente,  as  a  usual  thing;  but  even  the 
baser  sort  of  San  Clemente  had  thought  of  this  affair  of  little 
Katie  Quinn's  as  a  thing  apart  from  all  ordinary  rules  and 
cautions:  had  been  loose-tongued  accordingly.  Therefore,  a 
fairly  accurate  version  of  Katie's  peril  and  rescue  had  drifted 
to  Spencer's  ears. — There  had  been  also  a  rumor  of  a  cov 
ered  spring  wagon,  creeping  by  slow  stages  up  the  inland 
valleys  beyond  the  Black  Range.  That  slow  journey  had 
ended  at  Fuentes  town:  and  those  leisurely  wayfarers  had 
been  three — Billy  Murray,  Steve  Thompson  and  a  stranger 
who  gave  his  name  as  Lute  Evans,  or  Luther  Evans —  a  stran 
ger  with  a  crooked  nose — a  stranger  very  pale  and  feeble,  as 
if  he  had  been  ill — or  wounded  perhaps.  Mr.  Spencer  re 
volved  these  things  in  his  mind.  His  lips  parted  in  a  crafty 
and  cruel  smile:  he  pulled  paper  to  him  and  began  to  write. 

"Well,  J.  C.,  you  came  at  last,"  said  Mendenhall  heartily. 
"This  is  the  third  day  I've  met  the  stage  for  you.  Arm 
strong,  you  and  I  haven't  always  got  along  beautifully,  but 
this  is  one  time  I'm  glad  to  see  you.  This  strike  is  getting 
my  goat.  I'm  afraid  we  are  going  to  have  trouble.  Can't 


222  WEST    IS    WEST 

you  come  up  to  the  office  and  make  medicine?  I'm  uneasy 
in  my  mind.  You  can  'phone  your  missus,  and  I'll  have  sup 
per  sent  over  from  the  hotel." 

"All  right,  Herman,"  said  J.  C.,  burly,  square-jawed, 
bushy-browed.  "What's  it  all  about,  anyhow?" 

"Nothing,  except  what  I  wrote  you — holding  us  up  for 
more  money.  They're  stubborn,  or  I  am,  or  both.  I  really 
should  have  written  before,  I  guess.  I  was  hoping  to  get  it 
settled  without  bothering  you." 

"What  about  insufficient  timbering?  I  hear  the  men  made 
a  grievance  of  that,  too." 

Mendenhall  brushed  the  query  aside. 

"Yes,  they  were  right  about  that.  We  ran  short  and  put 
in  some  pretty  weak  sticks  in  the  stopes  above  the  four- 
hundred-foot  drift.  I  wanted  to  get  the  ore  out  to  fill  our 
contract,  and  'twas  safe  enough  for  a  few  days.  The  new 
men  are  doing  the  job  over  now — part  of  'em.  I  put  the  rest 
to  driving  the  adit  we  started  to  drain  the  sump*  Spencer 
and  I  talked  it  over  and  decided  not  to  run  a  night  shift  yet. 
If  any  of  the  old  men  have  a  mind  for  violence,  a  night  shift 
would  give  them  their  chance.  They  can't  well  do  dirty  work 
in  daytime  in  full  sight  of  town.  It's  too  expensive  to  keep 
the  pumps  going  without  a  full  crew  on  the  job,  so  we  thought 
we'd  best  rush  the  adit  before  the  mine  flooded.  Don't  go 
so  fast,  J.  C. ;  you're  forgetting  my  game  leg." 

"Did  they  misuse  the  Mexicans  you  hired?" 

"Why,  no,  I  don't  believe  they  did,"  said  Mendenhall  with 
eager  generosity.  "Mostly  hard  words,  I  guess;  maybe  a 
little  hustling — nothing  to  hurt.  But  they  used  mighty  rough 
talk  to  Spencer,  too.  That  made  it  hard  for  me.  I  can't 
very  well  go  back  on  my  superintendent.  If  they  had  come 
to  me  first,  J.  C.,  I  might  have  given  them  the  extra  half- 
dollar  temporarily,  till  the  directors  could  meet  and  decide 
what  to  do.  I  wanted  to  keep  the  mine  running.  But  I 
couldn't  go  over  Spencer's  head,  could  I  now?" 

"No,"  said  Armstrong,  frowning.  "Think  the  labor  unions 
didn't  send  a  man  here  to  stir  up  the  trouble?" 

"I  hardly  believe  so.  They  just  took  a  fancy  for  four 
dollars  per.  No  mine  has  ever  paid  that  in  San  Clemente. 
I  don't  know  why  they  picked  on  us.  Gosh,  I'd  hate  to 


TINTED   NEWS  223 

knuckle  down  to  'em,  though  of  course  the  directors  may  de 
cide  to  do  it.  On  the  other  hand,  we've  had  the  old  push 
with  us  from  the  first — and  I  liked  the  old  boys,  J.  C." 

"That  they've  been  with  us  from  the  first  is  exactly  what 
makes  this  crack  mighty  nearly  unforgivable,"  said  J.  C.  "If 
they  wanted  an  advance,  they  should  have  asked  for  it  like 
men,  and  kept  on  to  work  till  we  had  time  to  think  it  over, 
at  least." 

"Shucks,  J.  C.,  you  mustn't  expect  too  much  of  men  like 
that,  just  ignorant  old  mossbacks.  Their  tongues  are  rough, 
but  they're  not  badhearted.  You  must  expect  that  sort  to 
go  off  half-cocked  once  in  a  while.  Like  as  not  half  of  'em 
are  sorry  now  and  would  be  glad  to  be  on  the  job  again." 

"They'll  get  the  chance,"  said  the  other  grimly,  "if  they 
go  to  work  at  the  old  scale.  Then  if  they  have  any  propo 
sition  to  make  we'll  consider  it — and  not  till  then." 

"That's  the  way  I  hoped  you'd  see  it.  For  if  the  directors 
give  in,  Spencer  will  have  to  go — me,  too,  probably.  I  hope 
they  don't  hold  out  so  long  that  we  can't  get  together.  People 
say — I  don't  know  how  true  it  is — that  the  miners  at  the 
Memphis  and  the  Bennett-Stephenson  are  giving  up  part  of 
their  wages  to  carry  the  strikers  over.  And  the  cowmen  are 
eggin'  'em  on." 

"They'll  give  in  or  stay  out  for  keeps.  No  man  can  tell 
me  how  to  run  my  business,"  said  Armstrong. 

Mendenhall,  lagging  behind  on  the  steep  trail,  permitted 
a  malicious  bleam  of  amusement  to  flicker  in  his  eyes. 

"You're  walking  me  off  my  feet  with  this  pesky  limp  of 
mine,"  he  said.  "Slow  up,  and  cool  off.  I  was  pretty  hot 
myself,  at  first.  Reckon  I'm  getting  patient  in  my  old  age,  for 
I'm  trying  to  see  both  sides.  There's  another  thing,  J.  C.  ; 
serious,  too.  This  new  outfit  I  shipped  in  from  outside  looks 
like  they  might  be  ugly  customers.  They're  rubbin'  it  over  on 
the  old  hands  something  scandalous.  Spencer  tries  to  hold 
'em  down;  but  they  drink  a  good  deal.  Strike  or  no  strike, 
I'd  hate  to  see  any  of  the  old  gang  get  in  bad  or  get  hurt. 
Only  for  that  I  would  have  had  in  a  full  crew  before  now. 
But  this  new  bunch  are  bad  hombres.  Old  strike-breakers, 
you  know.  They  look  tough  to  me.  Their  ringleader,  in  par 
ticular,  Clay  Connor,  he's  a  regular  wolf.  More  than  one 


224  WEST    IS    WEST 

of  'em  are  gunmen,  I  judge.  And  they  don't  break  rocks 
for  shucks,  and  they're  insubordinate,  and  they're  costing  us 
like  hell — to  say  nothing  of  the  risk  of  bloodshed." 

"If  there's  any  bloodshed  or  destructioon  of  property,  the 
old  crowd  is  out  for  keeps — if  the  mine  goes  bust  on  it,"  said 
Armstrong. 

"Easy  all,  J.  C !  If  the  newcomers  start  it,  you  wouldn't 
bar  out  the  old  boys?  A  man's  got  a  right  to  defend  him 
self,  I  suppose,  even  if  he  is  a  striker." 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so — if  we  knew  who  started  it.  Nobody 
ever  started  a  shooting  scrape,  to  hear  them  tell  it." 

"That's  right,  too.  How  does  this  hit  you,  J.  C.?  Let's 
rush  that  drain  right  through  so  the  mine  don't  flood — all  of 
us  sittin'  on  the  lid — and  then  ship  out  the  newcomers  and 
shut  down  the  mine  till  the  strikers  come  to  our  terms,  hey?" 

"That's  the  caper.     Freezeout." 

"Freezeout  it  is.  We  can  rush  that  adit  through  to  the 
water  in  another  week.  Then  we'll  all  be  hunky,  if  the  strikers 
don't  get  to  hittin'  up  the  booze.  I'll  say  this  for  them,  J.  C.  ; 
they're  well  led  or  well  advised.  They've  held  in  and  stood 
for  a  good  deal  of  insultin'  talk  these  last  few  days.  Hope 
they  can  keep  it  up.  Say,  J.  C.,  if  they  were  to  blow  up 
the  pumps  on  us  before  we  got  our  drain  finished,  it  would 
put  a  crimp  in  us  for  fair,  wouldn't  it?  Well,  here  we  are. 
You  go  in  the  office.  I've  got  a  bottle  of  fine  old  Pontecanet 
in  the  cooler.  I'll  get  that.  Then  we'll  'phone  for  supper 
and  discuss  ways  and  means." 

As  Mendenhall  opened  the  refrigerator,  Clem  Gray  came 
out  of  the  assayer's  office  and  joined  him. 

"What  does  he  say,  Uncle  Hermann?"  he  whispered. 

"Got  him !"  said  Mendenhall  blithely.  "Swallowed  it,  hook, 
bob  and  sinker!  Pompous  old  ass!" 

Six  men  filed  into  Armstrong's  gate  next  day — Corwen, 
Pendravis,  Price,  Owens,  Murtha  and  Wigfall.  Armstrong 
came  out  to  meet  them.  He  waited  on  the  walk  below  the 
piazza  and  held  up  a  forbidding  hand. 

"If  you  are  here  as  individuals,  as  my  old  friends  and 
neighbors — come  in !  If  you  come  as  any  kind  of  delegation 
or  committee  from  your  ungrateful  union,  go  back  the  way 


TINTED    NEWS  225 

you  came !"  His  bushy  brows  were  knotted  to  bristling  tufts, 
his  square,  smooth  face  was  red  with  anger. 

The  miners  came  to  a  halt,  jostling  together  awkwardly. 
Old  Sam  Wigfall  stepped  forward  a  pace. 

"Happen  we  moight  have  a  word  with  'ee,  friendly  loike," 
he  said.  "We  want  nowt  beyond  reason." 

"Go  back  to  your  work.  Then  if  you  have  any  complaint 
to  make,  I'll  listen." 

"But  they  timbers,  J.  C. !  Look  for  thysen — wast  moiner  or 
e'er  tha'  wast  maister." 

"Go  back  to  work!"  boomed  Armstrong.  "I'll  not  hear  a 
word !" 

Old  Wigfall  advanced  another  step.  His  eyes  blazed 
wrath. 

"Maister  or  no,  shalt  not  roar  me  doon!  Give  ower  thy^ 
bull-bellowing!  Art  but  a  man  for  all — and  no  man  can 
daunt  me  wi'  black  looks !  Hear  me  now !" 

"Do  you  threaten  me?" 

" Yaas,  bai  Gawd !  bawled  the  old  miner. 

They  faced  each  other,  glaring  and  quivering.  Then  old 
Sam  brought  his  voice  down  with  an  effort.  "Taper  off  a 
bit,  J.  C.,  and  oi  will  do  the  same.  Angry  words  are  half 
meant.  Happen  tha'  didna  mean  the  full  of  thy  own  words, 
beloike.  Coom !  We'll  make'ee  an  offer.  Do'ee  pick  three 
moiners — the  managers,  if  tha'  loike — from  the  Merlin,  the 
Modoc  and  the  Memphis.  If  nobbut  one  of  three  say  that 
Gallery  Foar  or  Gallery  Two  the  Foar  Hunnerd  Drift 
be  saife — they're  the  worst — why,  we'll  go  back  to  wor-rk. 
Speak  up,  men,  wilt  stand  by  my  offer?" 

"That's  roight,"  growled  Pendravis.  "Us'll  bide  bai  that 
wor-rd,  one  and  all." 

"Do'ee  goa  thysen,  J.  C.,"  urged  Blacky  Corwen.  "Thou'rt 
better  moiner  nor  any  of  they  manager  men  on  t'  hill." 

"No  man  shall  tell  me  how  to  run  my  business,"  said  J.  C. 
doggedly.  "Go  back  to  your  work.  When  you  do  that,  I 
may  hear  what  you  have  to  say — not  till  then.  That's  my 
last  word  to  you!" 


226  WEST    IS    WEST 

"Do  'ee  hear  this  wor-rud  then!"  Old  Wigfall  went 
through  the  motion  of  washing  his  hands;  he  shook  invisible 
drops  from  his  fingers.  "We  havena  lot  or  part  in  'ee!  If 
tha'  sends  flesh  and  blood  again  to  yonder  man-trap,  art  no. 
better  nor  a  murderer — and  a  murderer  for  siller !  Go  thy 
ways  to  hell!" 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

MEN    OP    HARLECH 

IT  is  well  known  that  the  best  tunes  are  in  the  devil's 
service.  The  devil  is  well  served  in  other  ways.  Saloons, 
now;  all  that  has  been  sung  or  said  in  dispraise  of  saloons 
is  here  fervently  indorsed.  Yet  notice  how  effectively  the 
deputy  plays  upon  the  passionate  preference  for  the  undeco- 
rative  which  marks  the  uncultured  male.  There  is  room  and 
sea  way,  walls  and  floor  are  uncluttered  by  frippery,  shrub 
bery,  curlicues,  lace  and  gossamer,  mystery,  concealment  and 
junk. 

John's  room — John's  ideal  room,  the  den  of  his  dreams — 
is  high  and  sunny  and  bare.  One  door  and  much  light,  one 
table  and  two  chairs,  real  fireplace  and  real  wood,  ash  tray 
and  waste-basket,  an  unfringed  rug  of  solid  warm  color — • 
everything  may  be  seen  at  a  glance.  On  the  wall  are  maps 
of  far  places,  Arabia  and  the  East  Indies,  a  shelf  for  the 
Six  Best  Books.  No  drawn  work,  no  diaphaniety,  no  cush 
ions,  nothing  too  fine  for  use,  nothing  to  live  up  to,  no  form 
ulas  for  compliance  withal.  An  ideal  only;  with  the  best 
motives,  John's  womankind  tenderly  persist  in  making  him 
comfortable.  So  John  goes  hence  to  rest  his  poor  head  from 
the  overwhelmingness  of  personal  property;  far  from  the 
maddening  formula,  to  where  he  may  be  unfeignedly  John- 
some,  and  not  a  poor  imitation  of  James,  living  according  to 
the  conscience  of  his  own  dictator. 

The  above  is  in  no  sense  a  criticism;  merely  dispassionate 
comment.  We  all  and  necessarily  accept  woman  as  she  is. 
She  always  was. 

The  business  place  of  Trevennick  &  Nagel,  in  San  Cle- 
mente,  is  fashioned  in  deference  to  John's  views,  high,  wide 
and  handsome.  Here  no  John  is  required  to  be  Jimsome, 

227 


228  WEST    IS    WEST 

or  contrariwise.  It  is  fully  recognized  at  this  business  center 
that  you  are  you  and  that  I  am  I,  and  that  there  are  still 
others  entirely  distinct  from  either  of  us.  There  is  no  effort 
to  make  anyone  look,  act,  be  and  feel  like  a  composite  photo 
graphed — retouched — of  these  several  poor  kinds  of  people. 
Thus  freed  from  the  strain  and  vigilance  of  ceaseless  effort 
to  be  someone  else,  the  John  mind  relaxes ;  a  lively  sense  of 
well-being,  ease  and  pleasant  cheer  suffuses  his  rosy  limbs. 

Nagal  too — the  Noisy  Partner,  as  distinguished  from  Joe 
Trevennick,  the  Silent  Partner — Nagel  was  a  distinct  in 
fluence.  Nagel  had  only  a  part  of  a  piece  of  one  lung,  and 
each  hour's  life  was  an  independent  miracle.  Authority  had 
given  him  six  weeks  at  best — four  years  earlier.  Having  put 
by  the  hopes  of  this  world,  Nagel  fronted  the  ills  of  life 
with  a  simple  and  light-hearted  cheerfulness  which  was  at 
once  impressive,  instructive  and  infectious.  For  very  shame's 
sake  we  abandoned  our  petty,  silly  woe  and  grievance;  the 
intolerable-  injury  became  a  light  matter. 

Yes,  Albert  used  you  shabbily,  no  doubt.  But  perhaps 
he  had  his  reasons.  Come  to  think  of  it,  didn't  you  treat 
Tommy  quite  as  badly,  long  ago?  Partly  because  you  were 
a  silly  ass,  that  was ;  partly  for  the  fell  clutch  of  circumstance. 
Yet  Tommy  has  forgiven  you.  Plainly,  you  must  give  Albert 
a  good  licking,  or  take  one,  and  thereafter  harbor  no  mallice. 
Who  knows?  perhaps  Albert  was  also  in  the  clutch  of  cir 
cumstance  ? 

This  Nagel — dead  and  dust  long  ago — is  not  forgetable, 
with  his  big  eyes  and  the  crooked  smile  under  his  incredibly 
long  mustaches,  his  frail,  thin  hands,  his  cheerful  croak  and 
his  invincible  courage. 

Business  was  thriving.  The  thick  blurr  of  Cornish  speech 
"was  in  the  air,  the  softer  slurrings  of  Welsh.  It  was  Satur 
day  night,  it  was  pay  day  at  the  Merlin  and  the  Modoc;  the 
big  wages  were  all  to  spend.  There  was  a  fair  attendance 
from  the  other  mines,  some  even  from  the  Bennett-Stephenson, 
five  miles  away — men  who  were  single  and  optimistic  (who 
were  both  single  and  optimistic,  on  reflection)  and  who  antici 
pated  benefits  from  the  big  wages.  The  Torpedoes  were  pres 
ent  in  force,  surly  and  silent,  or  speaking  apart  with  friends 
from  the  other  mines. 


MEN   OF   HARLECH  229 

The  strike-breakers  attended  in  a  body.  Sixteen  of  them, 
big  men  all,  they  made  a  group  apart,  under  the  leadership 
of  their  smallest,  bright-eyed  Clay  Connor.  They  drank  deep 
and  laughed  loud;  drinking  only  among  themselves,  perforce, 
except  when  Bates,  a  rat-faced  stranger  from  the  hotel, 
thumped  the  bar  and  called  up  all  hands. 

There  were  some  half-dozen  cowmen,  including  Emil  James 
and  Rainboldt.  Dick  was  in  no  amiable  mood,  this  being  the 
day  following  his  little  trip  to  the  high  country.  The  north 
side  of  town  was  represented  by  "Charming  Billy"  Armstrong, 
quiet  Ed  Dowlin  and  Pierre  Hines,  who  sat  on  a  window 
ledge,  observant;  and  the  gathering  was  completed  by  a 
sprinkling  of  prospectors  headed  by  old  Pat  Breen,  a  wizened 
and  smiling  little  man  with  a  record. 

The  Silent  Partner  worked  double  tides,  ambidextrous  to 
the  needs  of  business,  yet  with  a  corner  of  an  eye  for  Sam 
Barkeep.  Sam  Clemente  was  far  afield;  there,  at  least,  cash 
registration  had  not  yet  cast  an  upas  blight  upon  youthful 
enterprise.  Nagel  plucked  a  merry  strain  from  a  guitar.  Then 
his  eye  singled  out  young  Benjy  Gram,  of  the  Mormon. 

"Up,  Benjy!"  called  Nagel.     '"Atta-boy!" 

He  threw  his  head  up,  he  straightened  himself  in  his  chair, 
he  swept  the  strings  to  a  high  and  throbbing  call.     Young 
Benjy  crossed  to  Nagel's  chair;  his  strong  young  voice  fell 
in  with  the  crashing  chords,  thrilled  and  swelled  to  the  strong 
barbaric  cadences;  the  march  of  the  Men  of  Harlech: 
"Ni  chaiff  gelyn  ladd  ac  ymlid, 
Harlech!     Harlech!     cwyd  iw  herlid; 
Y  mae  Rhoddwr  mawr  ein  Rhyddid, 
Yu  rhoi  nerth  i  ni; " 

Billy  Armstrong  was  speaking  with  compassion  of  the 
Noisy  Partner,  when  a  voice  split  through  the  roaring  mirth 
in  front.  It  was  not  loud,  but  it  made  its  way,  tense  and 
hateful.  The  mirth  died  down.  Men  stepped  aside  to  the 
bar,  the  wall,  leaving  a  clear  lane  through  the  place  of 
business. 

Two  men  stood  out  alone — Clay  Connor,  slight,  panther- 
graceful,  smiling,  a  beautiful  devil,  and  young  Benjy,  the 
singer. 

"Cut  out  that  infernal  caterwauling  and  clapper-clawing, 


230  WEST    IS   WEST 

I  say.     That's  no  tongue  for  a  white  man  to  hear." 

'  'Tis  a  fine  old  ancient  tongue,"  said  sturdy  Benjy.  "And 
a  noble  song.  Too  good  for  the  likes  of  you." 

"I  hear  you  say  so." 

"I  am  here  to  make  it  good,"  said  Benjy.  "Take  off  your 
coat  and  have  it  explained.  I'm  no  gunman." 

"And  I'm  no  boy,"  said  Connor,  laughing  lightly.  "Not 
good  enough,  kid — I  don't  fight  fistfights.  A  boy's  game. 
You  lick  me  to-day  and  I  lick  you  to-morrow.  Nothing  set 
tled.  But  I  say  again  that  your  disemvoweled  Taffy-talk 
song  sounds  like  a  pack  of  fire-crackers.  And  I'll  back  my 
words  at  any  game  where  a  man  stays  put." 

Nagel  strummed  softly  on  the  guitar,  his  chair  tilted  on 
two  legs.  Connor  kept  the  tail  of  his  eye  on  "Doc"  Hughes, 
booted  and  spurred,  half  cowman,  half  miner,  as  the  one  most 
likely  to  take  up  the  challenge.  But  it  was  Rainboldt  who 
answered.  His  back  was  to  the  bar,  his  weight  resting  on 
both  elbows,  thrust  behind  him  wingwise;  one  foot  was  on 
the  floor,  the  boot  heel  of  the  other  caught  on  the  brass  foot- 
rail — a  picture  of  careless  comfort.  As  he  spoke  he  shifted 
his  position  ever  so  slightly  so  that  his  weight  fell  on  the 
left  elbow,  leaving  the  right  still  touching  the  bar-top,  but 
free. 

"Do  you  know,  Mr.  Connor,"  said  Dick  evenly,  "I  quite 
agree  with  your  views  on  fist-fighting.  And  I  like  your  face. 
Any  time  you  want  to  borrow  trouble,  your  credit's  good  with 
me.  As  a  linguist,  however,  your  sentiments  distress  me." 

"Good  night,  nurse!"  said  Emil  James,  and  pushed  himself 
forward  to  the  open,  his  eyes  upon  Connor's  adherents,  now 
crowding  to  the  fore. 

"I  love  Welsh,"  said  Dick.  "I  may  be  said  to  dote  upon 
Welsh.  Welsh  is  a  language  of  singular  beauty.  It  appeals 
to  all  that  is  highest  and  best  in  my  nature.  Tall  talk  will 
never  turn  me  from  it.  Go  on  with  your  song,  kid.  I'll  see 
to  it  that  no  one  interrupts  you." 

Nagel's  speech  overlapped  the  last  words.  He  plucked  a 
wandering  air  from  his  guitar;  a  Spanish  folk  song  with  a 
recurring  poignant  phrase,  a  rising  phrase,  ever  keener  and 
more  tense. 

"Consider  my  case,  now,  you  two  gentlemen,  before  you 


MEN   OF   HARLECH  231 

go  into  the  matter  further/'  said  Nagel.  There  was  that  in 
his  quiet  voice  for  which  they  listened,  Clay  Connor  crouching 
tiger-wise,  Rainboldt  leaning  idly  against  the  bar;  listened 
each  with  eyes  only  for  the  other. 

"Life  isn't  as  good  fun  as  when  I  was  a  boy/'  said  Nagel 
pleasantly.  "Sometimes  I'm  almost  weary  of  dying  on  the 
installment  plan.  You  want  to  bear  that  in  mind.  So  I'm 
asking  you  gentlemen  not  to  start  any  shooting  to-night,  please. 
It  mars  the  furniture;  it's  bad  for  business;  and  it  annoys 
me.  I've  got  a  sawed-off  shotgun  under  the  corner  of  the 
bar,  nine  buckshot  to  a  load,  two  barrels,  one  barrel  for  each 
of  you  and  no  favorites  played.  If  I  get  mine,  why,  that's 
so  much  clear  gain.  Only  neither  of  you  fellows  want  the 
name  of  snuffing  out  a  wreck  like  me.  'Twould  look  ugly. 
Still,  suit  yourselves." 

The  guitar  tinkled  away,  about  moons  and  a  dreamy  wind 
now,  violets,  and  the  like  of  that.  Some  one  sighed  in  the 
crowd  by  the  wall.  Rainboldt's  blue  eyes  broke  to  a  frosty 
twinkle. 

"That  will  be  enough  for  all  practical  purposes,"  he  re 
marked  thoughtfully.  "Thank  you,  I  don't  wish  any  of  the 
pie."  He  turned  to  the  bar.  "Drinks  on  the  house,  you!" 
he  announced. 

"Sure!"  said  Trevennick,  and  dispassionately  twisted  from 
Sam's  hand  certain  coins  which  Sam  was  about  to  bestow 
upon  himself.  "Line  up,  gentlemen — name  your  poison." 

It  was  a  long  sigh  this  time  that  went  up  from  the  roomful. 
Amid  a  general  shuffling  of  feet  and  chairlegs,  Connor  held  up 
his  hand. 

"Boys/'  he  said,  "I  want  you  all  to  know  that  this  stranger- 
man  said  exactly  what  I  wanted  to  say,  only  I  didn't  have 
the  nerve  to  say  it — me  being  a  newcomer  and  not  much  known 
here.  It  was  clever  of  him  and  I  am  thankful  for  that  same. 
Not  to  be  wholly  outdone  in  generosity,  I  will  now  take  water. 
I  hereby  admit,  avow,  and  proclaim  that  Welsh  is  the  finest 
tongue  the  world  knows — barrin'  only  the  Irish,  which  is  own 
cousin  to  it — and  for  the  music  mayhap  it  is  even  better  than 
the  Irish." 

He  turned  to  Dick  curiously. 

"You  have  my  name,  sir.    Will  you  give  me  yours?     Rain- 


232  WEST    IS    WEST 

boldt?"  He  held  out  his  hand.  "I'm  proud  to  know  you, 
ye  devil!  But  you're  not  Welsh — never  a  hair  of  you." 

"No,"  said  Rainboldt  gravely.  "I'm  American,  and  I  never 
breathed  with  soul  so  dead.  But  when  I'm  in  Rome  I  like 
to  ramble." 

"You  go  too  strong  for  me — you  and  friend  music,"  said 
Connor  frankly.  "Come  on,  lads,  we'll  hear  the  rest  of  that 
song — and  a  rare  fine  one  it  is !"  he  laughed.  "And  there 
will  be  no  more  tall  talk  this  night — not  from  me." 

" Yuh  damn  hobgoblin !"  said  Emil  James,  when  he  and 
Dick  had  reached  home.  "You  near  started  a  riot." 

"When  I  was  a  boy,"  explained  Dick,  "I  had  a  pup  that 
was  a  lineal  descendant  of  Llewellyn's  hound  in  the  Fifth 
Reader.  So  I  couldn't  stand  for  no  such  break  as  that." 

"Them  Torpedoes  and  Modocs  is  suhtainly  keepin'  their 
heads,"  mused  Emil.  "That's  the  old  hands  holdin'  the  young 
devils  back,  or  there'd  sure  be  war.  That  Connor  gang  is 
sure  obstreperous.  Takin'  mighty  big  chances,  they  are.  I 
wouldn't  have  made  that  crack  Connor  did,  not  on  a  bet." 

"Nor  for  wages?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean,"  said  Dick,  "that  this  whole  play  these  strike 
breakers  make  is  too  raw  to  be  natural.  If  they  are  not 
pulling  this  rough  stuff  per  instructions,  I  miss  my  guess." 

"But — why?" 

"That,"  said  Dick,  "is  what  I  am  going  to  study  on,  after 
I  put  out  the  light.  Notice  that  man  Bates  who  was  settin' 
'em  up  to  the  house  so  wild  and  fierce?" 

"The  hatchet-faced  one?     Yes!" 

"Well,"  said  Dick,  "he  didn't  loosen  up  till  the  Torpedoes 
came.  Then  he  limbered  up  and  got  in  action  like  he  was 
afraid  of  dying  disgraced.  But  after  Connor  and  me  had 
our  exchange  of  views  the  Torpedoes  went  home.  Bates  hung 
round,  but  he  didn't  buy — not  after  the  Torpedoes  went — 
not  once.  Notice  that?" 

"Humph !"  said  Emil  James.  He  looked  down  his  nose. 
"So  he  did !" 

He  blew  out  the  light.  Dick,  wrestling  with  his  problem, 
dropped  off  to  a  troubled  sleep:  and  dreamed  of  a  girl  that 
glowed  like  a  ruby  in  the  sun. 


THE  BELLS  OF  SAINT  CLEMENS 

CHAPTER  XXVIII 

LITTLE    BLACK    TOODLES 

"You  may  say  what  you  like/'  said  Billy  firmly,  "but  I'll 
never  marry  a  girl  that  won't  speak  to  me.  No,  sir!  I'd 
as  soon  marry  you — or  Judith.  Don't  say  'Hilda'  to  me!" 

"What's  the  matter  with  us?"  demanded  Violet  Armstrong 
tartly,  from  the  porch  steps. 

"While  I  am  no  hardened  moralist/'  said  Pierre,  in  a 
shocked  voice,  "both  of  you,  you  know — really,  Vi'let!  It's — 
it's  unusual !"  Pierre  lay  on  the  grass  with  clasped  hands 
behind  his  head  and  his  eyes  dreamed  along  the  crest  of  La 
Fantasia. 

"Oh,  bother!  Why  shouldn't  you  marry  one  of  us, 
William?" 

"Cousins,"  said  Billy  briefly. 

"Nonsense!     I'm  not  your  cousin,"  said  Judith. 

"Vi  is  my  cousin  and  you're  Vi's  cousin.  Same  thing/'  said 
Billy  heartlessly.  "Sorry,  and  all  that.  But  you  see  how 
it  is." 

"Billy  Armstrong,  you're  horrid!"  declared  Violet.  "Of 
all  the  stuck-up  smarties !  Charming  Billy !  William  the 
Conqueror !  Yah !" 

"Hell  hath  no  fury  like  a  woman — quotation  marks/'  said 
Pierre.  "You've  hurt  their  feelings,  Billy." 

"Vain  Miss  Violet!"  mocked  Billy,  and  lifted  his  voice  in 
song: 

"Fain  Miss  Violet,  there  she  goes. 
All  dressed  up  in  her  Sunday  clothes!" 
233 


234  WEST    IS    WEST 

"That's  a  pretty  little  thing,  Armstrong.  Why  don't  you 
have  it  set  to  music?" 

"That's  right,  Mr.  Dowlin.  You  stick  up  for  us,"  purred 
Violet.  "You're  not  my  cousin,  are  you?" 

"If  you  weren't  my  cousin,  Ju,"  said  Billy  dreamily,  "I 
might  consider  you.  You're  not  so  bad  looking,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  know.  And  I  don't  have  to  depend  altogether  on 
my  looks,  either.  There  is  always  the  Elliott  Plow  Works. 
It  is  one  of  my  greatest  charms. 

"What  care  I  how  black  I  be, 
Forty  pounds  shall  marry  me! 
If  forty  won't,  then  fifty  shall, 
For  I'm  my  daddy's  bouncin'  gal!" 

"I'll  tell  you  who'd  be  a  good  match  for  Judy,"  said  Billy 
contemplatively.  "The  only  man  I  know  who  might — pos 
sibly — manage  her  when  she  goes  on  these  little  tantrums, 
is  that  chap  that  called  the  plug-uglies  last  night." 

"What  was  that,  Billy?"  asked  Vi.  "No  trouble  with  the 
miners,  I  hope?" 

"Nerviest  thing  I  ever  saw — and  the  silliest,"  said  Pierre. 
"Heroic  defense  of  the  Welsh  by  a  student  of  language  and 
literature — man  that  never  saw  a  harpoon.  Disinterested  de 
votion,  I  call  it.  Should  be  reported  to  Andrew  Carnegie, 
the  great  medaler." 

"But  what's  the  story?     We're  all  in  the  dark/' 

"Billy'll  tell  you.  He  talked  to  the  Champion  of  Cymry 
all  the  rest  of  the  evenin'.  Thicker'n  Damon  and  Charybdis, 
they  were." 

So  Billy  told  the  story,  interrupted  by  many  "Oh's !"  and 
"All's!"  "What  was  the  chap's  name,  Hines?"  he  finished. 

"I've  forgotten." 

"Rainboldt,"  said  Ed  Dowlin.     "Dick  Rainboldt." 

"Gee!"  said  Judith.  Her  eyes  grew  big  and  round;  her 
face  burned. 

"Another!"  groaned  Billy,  in  great  disgust.  "Lordy,  look 
at  her  blushin' !" 

"Where'd  you  meet  him,  Ju?"  demanded  Violet. 

"Oh,  I'm  such  a  fool — such  an  unfortunate  little  fool!" 


LITTLE   BLACK   TOODLES       235 

"Sounds  interesting"  said  Hines.  "Make  good,  sweet  maid, 
and  let  who  will  be  clever.  Tell  it  to  us." 

"The  day  my  horse  got  away,  I — I  met  him  on  the  trail 
and  we  came — Oh,  I  can't !  I'm  ashamed !"  said  Judith, 
through  her  fingers. 

"I  see,"  said  Pierre. 

"  fO  stay'  the  maiden  said,  'and  rest 
Thy  weary  head  upon  this  breast!' 
Suspicion  -filmed  that  stranger's  eye, 
And  to  the  maid  he  made  reply, 
( Excelsior?' " 

"Beast!  Pierre  Hines,  you're  just  horrid,  so  there!  I 
won't  tell  you — I  won't !  It  was  awful — worse  than  anything 
I've  ever  done." 

"It  must  have  been  awful,"  said  Miss  Violet.  "Now,  you've 
got  to  tell  us." 

"I — I "  began  Judith  wretchedly.    "I " 

"Yes,  you,  you,  certainly.  Go  on !"  encouraged  Billy. 
"Spare  us  the  preliminaries.  We've  been  through  them — 
eh,  Dowlin?" 

"She  makes  dimples,"  said  Dowlin  dismally.  "She  looks 
down — up  at  the  hills — and  sideways,  to  get  the  range,  and 
then  she  gives  you  a  broadside  all  at  once.  It's  fierce!  Tell 
us,  Judith ;  you  might  as  well.  Just  give  us  the  outlines.  We 
can  fill  them  in." 

Judith  buried  her  burning  face  in  her  arms;  half  sobbing, 
half  laughing,  she  blurted  out  the  shameful  story  of  Dick 
Rainboldt  and  the  tip. 

"Gabriel's  trump,  and  it  doubled !"  said  Pierre. 

"Rather!"  said  Dowlin,  and  whistled  in  his  teeth. 

Billy  groaned. 

"I  told  you  all  the  time  how  it  would  be,"  he  said  in  a 
weary  and  discouraged  voice.  "The  cow  has  eaten  the  grind 
stone  at  last!" 

There  was  a  heavy  silence.  Judith  peeped  out  timidly  from 
her  shelter.  Miss  Armstrong  stared  at  her  in  unassumed 
horror.  Billy  supported  his  chin  with  both  hands,  with  hope 
less,  unseeing  eyes  upon  the  far  peaks  of  Fantasia  Mountain. 


23G  WEST    IS    WEST 

Pierre  clung  blindly  to  the  corner  post  of  the  piazza,  wrestling 
with  some  great  emotion.  She  turned  to  Ed  Dowlin,  to  find 
his  honest  blue  eyes  filled  with  a  pity  so  obviously  sincere 
that  she  abandoned  half-measures  and  wept  openly. 

"You  inhuman  idiot!"  said  Miss  Armstrong.  "Howl,  you 
miserable  creature,  howl!  Serves  you  right!" 

"So  kind  of  you,  Sir  Walter,"  observed  Billy  in  a  mincing 
voice.  '  'Here's  a  quarter  for  you.  Railleh,  Mr.  Du  Guesclin, 
I  find  I  have  forgotten  my  purse.'  O,  Lord !" 

Judith  wailed  afresh. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry!  I'm  so  ashamed!  I — I  never  knew 
any  working  men.  I  didn't  kno-ow !" 

"Rot!"  said  Billy  brutally.  "Come  off  that  stuff!  Your 
dad  was  a  working  man — is  yet.  If  he  could  have  had  his 
way  you'd  have  been  brought  up  as  an  American  girl.  Aunt 
Jo  always  tried  to  be  snobby.  Snivel  now,  do!  You've  jolly 
well  got  a  good  right  to — go  to  it !" 

"Come,  'Miss  Elliott,  it  isn't  so  bad  as  all  that,"  said 
Dewlin.  "You  can  make  it  right  with  him,  you  know. 
Cheer  up !" 

"Oh,  do  you  think  so?"  Judith  put  out  a  hand  to  him. 
"I'll  apologize,  of  course,  if  that  will  do  any  good." 

"Apologize?  You  want  to  crawl!"  said  Violet.  "You  want 
to  grovel !" 

"Offer  to  do  his  washing,"  advised  Billy.  "That  is  the 
only  thing  I  can  think  of  that  will  square  you  properly." 

"I  am  submerged  in  gloom,  black  as  the  night  which  cov 
ered  Mr.  Henley  from  pole  to  pole,"  said  Pierre.  He  rolled 
over  with  his  face  in  the  grass  and  gave  himself  up  to 
unseemly  mirth. 

"Pierre  Hines !"  Judith  sprang  to  her  feet  with  flashing 
eyes.  "If  you  dare  laugh  at  me  while  I'm  in  such  tr-rouble, 
I'll  never  speak  to  you  again!  I'm  going  to  grovel!  I  know 
where  Mr.  Rainboldt  lives — just  over  the  divide,  at  the  James 
ranch.  I'll  go  now.  I'll  bring  him  back  with  me.  Billy,  you 
saddle  Nibbles  for  me  while  I  change." 

"I  say,  don't  wash  off  the  tearstains,  Ju.  That'll  fetch 
him.  You  look  rippin' !"  said  Billy. 

"Imbecile !"  said  Judith,  and  disappeared. 


LITTLE    BLACK   TOODLES       237 

"I  haven't  laughed  so  much  since  Uncle  Jim  died,"  de 
clared  Pierre. 

"Well,  she  got  hers !  Did  you  ever  hear  the  like  of  that 
caper?"  demanded  Miss  Violet  inelegantly.  "We  certainly 
punished  that  young  lady  for  fair.  All  her  mother's  fault, 
too.  Hope  we  didn't  rumple  her  precious  feelings  too  much. 
I'll  run  upstairs  and  smooth  her  down  a  little  before  she  goes." 

"Women,"  said  Billy  in  great  disgust,  "are  all  alike.  Vi 
has  gone  to  help  Judith  get  her  war  paint  on.  Poor 
Rainboldt !" 

Judith  flashed  through  the  gate  a  little  later,  waving  a 
gay  farewell  to  Violet  and  the  three  young  men.  Sabbath 
chimes  tossed  mellow  from  the  towers  of  San  Clemente  church 
as  she  clattered  up  the  stony  road. 

"The  Bells  of  Saint  Clemens !"  said  Pierre  soberly.  "You 
'member  what  I  said  at  the  tennis  match,  Dowlin?  She's 
makin'  her  choice  right  now — little  Judy ! 

'Que  t'as  de  belles  filles, 
L' Amour  les  comptera!' 

"I'm  a  seventh  son  of  a  calamity  howler,  and  I  want  to 
put  my  prophecy  on  record — little  Judy  is  a  goner!" 

Charming  Billy  watched  until  Judith  was  a  speck  in  the 
distance.  He  put  out  one  hand  to  Dowlin  and  one  to  Violet. 

"She  isn't  my  cousin,"  he  said,  in  a  wretched  little  whim 
per.  "I  want  my  little  black  Toodles!" 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

FORGIVE 

MR.  DICK  RAINBOLDT,  being  minded  to  teach  to  the  Star- 
gazer  bronco  the  beginnings  of  his  duty,  found  a  bunch  of 
cattle  upon  a  stony  hillside,  with  an  unbranded  calf  of  their 
number,  a  "short  yearling/'  appertaining  to  Emil  James.  He 
hustled  the  bunch  down  to  a  sandy  draw,  where  no  harm 
might  befall  calf  or  horse;  and  there  he  closed  in  with  a 
whirling  loop,  scattering  the  bellowing  tailenders.  The  calf 
was  swift,  but  studious  Stargazer  was  swifter;  there  was  a 
skillful  cast  of  the  loop,  and  the  long-ear  pitched  and  bawled 
at  the  rope's  end.  At  his  end  of  the  rope  Stargazer  did  a 
few  spectacular  bounds  on  his  own  account;  but  Rainboldt 
soothed  him  with  voice  and  hand,  and  mysteriously  contrived 
to  avoid  entanglement  in  the  rope. 

The  bunch  swept  on.  The  yearling  came  to  a  momentary 
halt.  Dick  touched  Stargazer  with  the  spur,  and,  as  the  horse 
darted  forward,  he  twitched  the  slack  so  that  the  yearling 
crossed  it.  At  the  same  time  he  reined  Stargazer  to  his 
haunches ;  the  long-ear  executed  a  creditable  somersault.  Dick 
jumped  off,  he  knotted  the  bridle  rein  deftly  to  the  rope;  he 
raced  swiftly  to  the  calf,  tugging  at  the  tie-string  round  his 
waist  as  he  ran. 

The  yearling  rose  before  Dick  was  halfway  down  the  rope ; 
he  gave  a  heart-chilling  battle  cry,  and  made  straight  for  his 
persecutor.  Dick  leaped  aside.  Stargazer  tried  to  run.  Horse 
and  long-ear  crossed  the  rope  in  opposite  directions  and  both 
were  thrown  to  the  ground.  As  the  yearling  fell,  the  cowboy 
pounced  upon  him,  gathered  the  frenzy-beating  feet  together 
with  a  swoop  of  legs  and  arms,  made  a  few  quick  passes  and 
rose.  The  captive  was  hog-tied.  Dick  threw  off  the  choking 
neck-rope. 


FORGIVE  239 

Stargazer  scrambled  to  his  feet,  terrified;  he  decided  to 
go  away,  but  the  bridle  reins  were  tied  fast  and  Dick  was 
at  the  other  end  of  the  rope,  with  his  heels  plowing  in  the 
sand.  Stargazer  came  to  a  halt,  snorting;  calling  softly  as 
he  drew  near,  Dick  came  up  the  rope,  coiling  it  as  he  came. 
He  untied  the  reins,  patted  Stargazer's  quivering  muzzle,  and 
put  foot  to  stirrup. 

It  was  time.  The  long-ear,  madly  threshing  his  head, 
bawled  frantic  terror  and  indignation.  Down  the  draw,  at 
this  piteous  outcry,  a  furious  cow  reappeared,  prompted  by 
maternal  affection.  She  was  too  near  for  comfort.  Star 
gazer  whirled,  plunging.  Rainboldt  slid  into  the  saddle;  he 
whirled  his  rope  and  shouted.  The  cow  charged  in  a  fine 
frenzy,  head  down,  tail  up,  vociferous.  Rainboldt  strove 
vainly  to  turn  her  with  shout  and  onsweep.  Her  blood  was 
up;  she  held  the  right  of  way.  Slipping  aside,  Dick  fell  in 
behind  her  and  drew  up  close  beside.  The  circling  rope 
poised  rhythmically,  it  swooped  down  over  her  shoulders  in 
exact  time  with  her  plunging  feet,  whirling  over,  forward 
and  downward,  as  it  came;  the  uplifted  hand  drew  the  noose 
tight,  the  pony  swerved;  "forefooted,"  the  luckless  avenger 
turned  in  air  and  lit  on  her  side  with  a  resounding  thump. 
Stargazer,  swinging  awkwardly,  was  near  to  following  her 
example,  but  managed  to  keep  his  feet.  The  cow  rose  pluckily, 
gasping  but  undaunted.  Bellowing  defiance,  she  lowered  her 
head  for  the  onset;  but  the  rope  tightened  with  a  cruel  jerk, 
and  she  went  down  again.  This  time  she  took  the  count. 
When  she  got  to  her  legs  Dick  allowed  the  loop  to  go  slack; 
it  dropped  from  her  feet.  When  Rainboldt  and  the  horse 
made  a  pass  at  her  she  turned  tail  and  made  off,  defeated  and 
grumbling. 

Dick  rode  leisurely  back  to  his  calf.  He  gathered  brush 
for  a  tiny  fire.  Stargazer,  bridle  tied  to  rope-end,  watched 
with  excited  interest  every  fresh  move  of  this  unaccountable 
master.  He  began  to  think  he  would  like  the  cow  business. 

Dick  took  the  little  running-iron  from  his  saddle  and  shoved 
it  in  the  fire.  He  sat  cross-legged  in  the  sand  and  permitted 
himself  the  luxury  of  a  cigarette.  The  calf  blatted  dismally. 

"Please,  Mr.  Rainboldt!" 

Mr.  Rainboldt  started  as  if  he  had  really  heard  the  words. 


240  WEST    IS    WEST 

He  blinked,  and  put  up  a  hand  to  brush  away  the  illusion. 
But  the  illusion  persisted  faintly. 

"Please,  Mr.  Rainboldt — I'm  so  sorry." 

"This  is  getting  to  be  a  habit,"  said  Mr.  Rainboldt  calmly. 
He  held  up  one  hand  and  checked  off  the  fingers  of  it  with 
the  thumb.  "Three — three  and  a  beer — twelve  hours  ago  at 
that.  This  is  serious." 

"Won't  you  forgive  me?" 

Dick  turned  his  head ;  he  leaped  to  his  feet,  scattering 
the  branding  fire.  Judith  Elliott  was  close  behind  him.  She 
sprang  down.  Nibbles  whinnied  to  Stargazer  politely.  Dick 
took  one  glad  step  forward  and  checked,  stiffening;  the  girl 
came  on  to  meet  him. 

"Mr.  Rainboldt,  I'm  dreadfully  ashamed  of  myself,"  said 
Judith  in  a  small,  meek  voice,  "and  I  humbly  beg  your 
pardon." 

The  unfortunate  calf  rolled  imploring  and  hopeful  eyes  at 
her  as  she  came.  Not  Dick;  the  yearling. 

"Here,  you  mustn't  feel  that  way,"  said  Dick  stiffly.  "For 
get  it!  No  bones  are  broken,  that  I  know  of." 

"You  must  remember  that  I'm  only  a  very  ignorant  and 
silly  girl,"  said  Judith  feverishly,  "and  then  you'll  forgive 
me — won't  you?" 

"Great  Scott,  woman,  you  mustn't  feel  like  that.  I  don't 
bear  any  grudge." 

"That  don't  sound  very  cordial,  Mr.  Rainboldt." 

Dick  pushed  back  his  tawny  mane. 

"Cordial?"  He  waved  his  hand  hospitably.  "Sit  down — 
make  yourself  at  home.  Is  that  what  you  want  me  to  say, 
Jud — Miss  Elliott?" 

"No,  it  isn't.  I  hurt  you  shamefully,  and  I  want  you  to 
say  'Jud — Miss  Elliott,  I  forgive  you' — just  like  that.  Those 
very  words.  Mr.  Rainboldt,  I  walked  home  every  step;  I 
wouldn't  get  in  the  stage.  My  heels  were  blistered  and  my 
tongue  was,  too.  Yes,  it  was.  I  said  'Jud — Miss  Elliott,  walk, 
expression,  walk!'  Now  you'll  forgive  me,  won't  you — Dick?" 

She  held  out  both  her  hands  and  Dick  took  them  with 
marked  unresistance. 

"It  sounds  intolerably  silly,  but  if  it  will  make  you  feel 
any  better,  Miss  Elliott " 


FORGIVE  241 

"Jud — Miss  Elliott/'  corrected  the  lady.  She  swept  a  swift 
glance  at  him  from  beneath  her  dark  lashes. 

"Jud — Miss  Elliott,  then — if  you  feel  that  way  about  it, 
you  may  consider  yourself  forgiven — but  unforgotten." 

Then  a  strange  thing  took  place.  Her  warm,  dusky  face 
was  near  him,  her  eyes  were  shining.  Dick  tried  honorably 
to  free  his  hands  and  withdraw;  Judith,  for  her  part,  did  the 
same,  as  honorably ;  and  both  failed  dismally.  It  happens  that 
way  sometimes.  Indeed,  it  is  hard  to  say  what  might  not 
next  have  chanced,  had  it  not  entered  Stargazer's  head,  quite 
providentially,  to  go  back  to  the  high  hills  and  liberty.  That 
broke  the  spell.  Dick  was  standing  on  the  rope;  he  grabbed 
it  just  in  time.  When  he  had  brought  the  runaway  to  his 
senses  the  girl  had  fled  to  her  own  horse  and  was  regarding 
him  across  the  saddle,  grave  and  bright-eyed. 

"That  was  a  narrow  escape,"  said  she. 

"It  was,"  agreed  Dick,  and  looked  his  gratitude  at  Star- 
gazer. 

"I  wish  he  had  gotten  clear  away  from  you,"  mused  Judith,, 
her  cheek  on  the  saddle. 

"Oh,  was  that  what  you  were  talking  about?" 

"It  was.  I  wish  he  had.  Then  you  might  have  ridden  my 
horse,  while  I  walked  and — and  evened  it  all  up."  Her  face 
reddened  with  shame.  "That  was  such  a  dreadful  thing  I 
did !" 

"Young  woman,"  said  Dick  firmly,  "listen  to  me.  Never 
speak  of  that  fortunate  affair  again,  do  you  hear?  No  ref 
erences  to  allusions  either.  Mind,  now !  And  get  on  your 
horse,  please.  I'm  going  to  turn  this  calf  loose." 

"Aren't  you  going  to  brand  him?" 

"I  am  not.  Ugly  business,  branding — not  pleasant  for  you 
to  see,  when  there's  no  need  of  it.  I  was  just  teaching  my 
horse  about  ropin',  anyhow.  James  can  get  his  calf  any  day* 
T  don't  care  if  he  never  gets  it." 

"I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say  next." 

"What  is  it,  then?" 

"You're  going  to  say,  Jud — Miss  Elliott,  and  may  you  see 
me  home?" 

"I  am,"  said  Dick.  "Correct!  And  what  am  I  thinking 
HOW?"  He  swung  into  the  saddle. 


242  WEST    IS    WEST 

"If  I  tell  you,"  said  Judith  reflectively,  "you  won't  take 
-advantage?" 

"I'd  scorn  to  do  so,"  said  Dick  virtuously. 

"Cross  your  heart  and  hope  to  die?" 

Dick  performed  the  required  rite. 

"You  are  thinking  that  I  am  going  to  fish  for  a  compli 
ment.  You're  wrong.  I'm  going  to  make  a  confession — of 
which  you  are  to  take  no  advantage.  I  told  you  a  whopping 
big  wrong  story  just  now,  Mr.  Rainboldt." 

Mr.  Rainboldt  made  a  swift  review  of  recent  events. 

"Oh,  that!"  he  said  scornfully.  "The  narrow  escape,  you 
mean?  You  didn't  mean  the  pony;  you  meant  us?" 

"Yes.  We  mustn't  let  it  happen  again."  She  pursed  her 
lips  to  a  prim  line;  but  there  were  little  struggling  wiggles 
and  wriggles. 

"We  will  not;  let  me  reassure  you.  It  wouldn't  have  hap 
pened  this  time,  only  for  this  infernal  horse." 

Judith's  eyes  brimmed  with  mirth. 

"Silly!"  she  said. 

"Yes,  wasn't  it?"  said  Dick  cheerfully.  "And  you  call  that 
&  wrong  story — that  feeble  attempt?  Better  let  me  give  you 
some  lessons,  if  you  want  to  learn  to  be  a  liar.  Why,  you 
poor,  innocent  child,  that  wasn't  even  a  falsehood,  much  less 
a  good  round  lie.  That  was  timidity." 

"You  are  quick-witted,"  acknowledged  Judith.  "The  boys 
said  so.  They're  waiting  for  you,  you  know.  I  promised  to 
bring  you  back  with  me  if  you'd  come." 

"The  boys?" 

"You  met  them — Billy  Armstrong  and  Company — last 
night." 

"Oh!"  said  Dick  doubtfully. 

"They'll  want  to  talk  to  you.  You  quite  won  their  hearts, 
Mr.  Rainboldt.  So  let's  gallop  up.  It's  getting  late." 

"Wait  a  minute,  please.  Did  you  mean  for  always,  or  only 
not  now?" 

"I  don't  understand  you." 

"I  wasn't  to  take  advantage  of  your  confession,  you  said. 
Does  that  mean  never — or  not  now?" 

Judith  looked  at  Fantasia  Mountain;  she  looked  down;  she 


FORGIVE  243 

peeped  under  her  long  lashes  at  Mr.  Rainboldt,  a  swift,  side 
long  glance.  Then  the  lashes  drooped  upon  her  flaming 
cheeks. 

"Not  now/'  said  Judith  faintly. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

FACE   UP 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  demanded  Dick,  "that  you're  all 
three  of  you  stockholders?" 

"Just  Pierre  and  I,"  said  Billy.  "Dowlin  has  a  mine  of 
his  own,  such  as  it  is." 

It  was  Monday  afternoon.  Dinner  was  over.  Dinner  is 
the  midday  meal  in  San  Clemente.  This  was  Dick's  second 
afternoon  on  the  Armstrong  porch;  the  stockholders  named 
and  the  independent  mine-owners  kept  him  company,  this 
time. 

Having  been  specially  requested  by  these  three  young  gen 
tlemen  to  take  an  hour's  nap,  to  visit  a  neighbor — to  clear 
out,  at  all  events — the  two  young  ladies  had  decided  for  the 
nap;  and  had  flounced  indoors  in  no  very  good  humor,  leaving 
the  young  gentlemen  in  triumphant  and  undisputed  possession 
of  young  Mr.  Rainboldt. 

"Since  my  advice  is  not  asked  for,  I'll  give  it,"  said  Dick. 
"You  sit  here  and  tell  me  you're  in  sympathy  with  the  strikers. 
Then  you  spring  it  on  me  that  you're  stockholders.  Queer 
stunt,  I  call  it.  Operators  and  workers — now  there  are  two 
words  which  mean  exactly  the  same  thing;  but  do  they?  Nay, 
brethering!  The  whole  history  of  what  we  have  agreed  to 
call  civilization  is  in  those  two  words.  A  mine  worker  is 
one  who  works  mines ;  a  mine  operator  is  one  who  works  men." 

"Fascinatin'  subject,  word-study.    But  about  geology,  now?" 

"The  study  of  operators  has  a  direct  bearing  on  geology, 
you'll  find,  Mr.  Armstrong.  Here  are  owners  and  miners 
in  full  sympathy,  and  a  strike  comes  just  the  same.  What's 
the  answer?  As  an  innocent  bystander,  I  say,  look  for  the 
operator." 

244 


FACE    UP  245 

"I  don't  get  you/'  said  Billy. 

"You  have  to  play  deep  for  these  fast  ones,"  said  Pierre\ 

Dick  grinned.  "The  worst  thing  about  education/'  he  said, 
"is  that  it  fosters  a  brutal  prejudice  against  guessing.  The 
right  guess  is  good  thinking;  I  call  it  thinking  across  lots." 

"I  don't  know  what  he  means/'  said  Pierre,  "but  thenr 
neither  does  he." 

"I  do,  too,"  said  Dick.  "There  are  two  ways  of  thinkin' 
and  shootin'  revolvers.  Just  two.  One  is  hand-to-hip,  click- 
click-bang!  You  don't  aim  nor  nothin',  but  your  bullet  or 
your  thought  goes  home  as  easy  and  certain  as  a  carrier 
pigeon.  And  you  can't  tell  anybody  how  to  do  it.  Either 
you  can  or  you  can't,  that's  all  there  is  about  it. 

"The  other  way  is  slower  and  mebbe  surer.  You  look  at 
the  thermometer,  get  the  distance  by  triangulation,  allow  for 
windage,  altitude  and  the  number  of  drinks  under  your  belt, 
hold  your  breath,  take  a  long  sight  and  let  go.  That's  the 
army  style  of  shooting — the  logical  style  of  thinking.  It  is 
mighty  good.  I've  seen  some  dead  center  bull's-eyes  done  that 
way.  Me,  I  like  snap-shootin'." 

"Show  us.     Produce." 

"Listen,  then.  We  will  assume  that  you  fellows  represent 
the  average  Torpedo  stockholder.  You  don't  want  a  strike; 
the  miners  didn't  want  a  strike;  your  uncle,  one  of  the  largest 
owners  of  Torpedo  stock,  was  surprised  at  the  strike.  Vir 
tuously  indignant,  also,  I  gather.  But  the  point  is,  for  my 
purpose,  that  the  strike  took  him  by  surprise.  Also,  and 
vastly  pertinent,  the  strike  took  the  strikers  by  surprise.  It 
seems  to  have  been  wished  on  them  by  a  thoroughly  competent 
wisher.  Who  and  why  is  the  merry  little  surpriser  who  sur 
prises  so  many  different  people?" 

The  stockholders  stared  at  each  other. 

"Spencer?" 

"Mendenhall,"  said  Pierre.  "Don't  you  see,  Billy,  Spencer 
wouldn't  dare  do  a  thing  like  that  on  his  own  hook." 

"But,"  said  Billy,  "my  uncle  assures  me  that  Mendenhall 
sticks  up  for  the  strikers  at  every  turn,  and  is  greatly  dis 
tressed  by  the  whole  affair." 

"Was  that  like  Mendenhall?"  asked  Dick. 

Dowlin  removed  the  cigar  from  his  mouth.     "It  was  not. 


246  WEST    IS    WEST 

Mendenhall  is  a  highly  adjustable  phrase  on  wheels  by  birth, 
inclination  and  training,"  he  said. 

"Such  eloquence  from  Dowlin  is  worth  a  volume  from  any 
other  man,  Mr.  Rainboldt,"  said  Pierre.  "There  you  have 
Mr.  Mendenhall's  biography  in  full.  Dowlin  is  not  usually 
given  to  poetic  licentiousness." 

"And  the  superintendent?" 

"You  know  where  they  keep  things  here,  Billy.  Get  the 
hammers." 

"Exhaustive  and  painful  researches,"  said  Billy,  "have  in- 
controvertibly  shown  that  Spencer  is  more  objectionable  in 
more  different  ways  than  any  other  man  west  of  any  place 
east  of  a  given  point  and  hence  on  a  line  drawn  due  south 
or  vice  versa,  as  the  case  may  be.  Makes  me  think  of  Mr. 
Carker,  all  teeth  and  smile  and  white  hands.  The  man's  a 
bounder." 

"  'Eave  'arf  a  brick  at  'im,"  said  Pierre. 

Dick  nodded  sagely. 

"Thought  so.  The  miners  have  been  talkin'  to  me — telling 
me  things  they  didn't  know  themselves.  They  bear  you  out 
in  every  respect.  Old  Pat  Breen  stayed  with  us  last  night, 
too,  and  I  found  out  a  heap  from  the  things  he  didn't  say." 

"Well?" 

"This  strike  was  forced  like  a  forced  card  in  a  conjurer's 
trick.  The  miners  got  treatment  no  self-respecting  man  would 
bear — a  reversal  of  all  Torpedo  traditions,  even  of  the  policy 
Spencer  had  followed  since  he  came.  The  timber  supply  was 
cut  short  suddenly,  without  reason,  and  where  it  was  needed 
most.  At  exactly  the  same  time  the  ugly  treatment  began — • 
dockin'  wages,  arbitrary  discharge  of  men  for  no  cause  given, 
hard  words,  unspoken  slights." 

"But  what  motive  could  there  be  in  all  this?" 

"The  love  of  unearned  money  is  the  root  of  all  evil.  When 
did  this  begin?  I  asked  'em. — Three  weeks  ago. — Where 
were  they  workin'  at  the  time? — All  over;  lots  of  places. — 
JBut  where  was  the  work  bein'  pushed? — At  such  a  place. 
Another  man,  old  Malcolm  Jedcoe,  remembered  that  the  ore 
had  struck  him  as  unusually  promising  just  before  the  hazing 
of  the  men  began.  Where  was  that? — At  such  a  place — the 


FACE    UP  247 

last  gallery  on  the  six-hundred-foot  level,  if  you  want  to 
know." 

"It  occurs  to  me/'  said  Billy  ruefully,  "that,  as  stock 
holders,  it  might  well  have  been  our  place  to  have  made  these 
investigations  ourselves,  instead  of  waiting  for  a  man  with 
brains  to  happen  along." 

"Correct,"  said  Dick,  "except  about  the  brains.  You  chaps 
have  got  the  brains.  What  you  need  is  a  little  piece  of  new 
equipment;  a  self-starter." 

"Right-o !"  said  Pierre.  "I  knew  Billy  had  to  be  cranked 
up  to  get  him  in  action.  But  I  hadn't  noticed  it  on  myself. 
Thanks  to  you.  Proceed.  Press  the  button.  Turn  on  the 
juice.  Go  easy  'round  the  corners." 

"All  right.  This  A.  M.,  old  Pat  Breen  volunteered  some 
information — volunteers  it,  remember;  a  suspicious  circum 
stance  in  itself.  He  remarked,  quite  casually,  in  reference  ta 
nothing  at  all,  that  Spencer  had  made  some  new  borings  just 
before  the  trouble  began.  Where?  'Just  beyond  the  end  of 
the  six-hundred-foot  level,  as  I  figure  it,'  says  Breen.  'Be 
tween  there  and  the  end  of  the  South  Tunnel.' ' 

The  two  stockholders  brought  their  chairs  to  a  level  and 
looked  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise. 

"My  heart  is  God's  little  garden,"  quoth  Pierre,  "and  this 
is  a  plant.  Billy ;  it's  a  freeze-out.  Was  any  report  made  of 
these  borings,  do  you  know?" 

"I  do.     There  wasn't." 

"Has  Mendenhall  the  cash  to  buy  Torpedo  stock  if  it  goes 
down?"  asked  Dick. 

"I  think  not.     Clem  Gray  has,  though — his  nephew." 

"It's  face  up,  then,"  said  Dick.  "They've  struck  rich  ore; 
they're  keeping  it  mum  and  playing  beggar-my-neighbor  with 
the  mine  to  beat  down  the  price  of  stock.  How  about  it, 
Dowlin?" 

"Face  up/'  said  Ed. 

"I  wish,  Mr.  Rainboldt,"  said  Billy,  "that  you'd  come  with 
us  and  talk  with  Uncle  Jim.  Maybe  you  can  make  him  see  it.'" 

"Not  to-day.  I  gather  that  your  uncle  is,  shall  we  say,  a 
very  firm  old  gentleman  ?  And  we  haven't  got  one  iota-  — 
whatever  that  is — of  real  proof.  Not  a  thing  but  the  right 
eruess.  What  you  want  is  samples  from  the  six-hundred-foot 


248  WEST    IS    WEST 

galleries  or  the  South  Tunnel — samples  gathered  in  the  dark 
of  the  moon." 

"But  even  after  we  get  the  samples — and  that  won't  be 
easy  to  do  without  rousing  Mendenhall's  suspicions — the  as- 
sayer  is  Mendenhall's  man,"  objected  Billy.  "We'll  have  to 
send  away  for  an  assay  before  we  can  be  sure.  That  will 
take  time,  and  time  is  just  what  we  haven't  got  to  spare.  If 
another  batch  of  strike  breakers  comes  we're  apt  to  have  a 
fair  imitation  of  merry  hell  here.  You'd  better  come  along 
and  talk  Uncle  J.  C.  over,  Rainboldt.  You  could  sell  a  merry- 
go-round  to  an  undertaker." 

"I'd  rather  not.  Not  to-day,  anyhow.  I'm  apt  to  get  out 
of  patience  when  people  are  firm,  that  way.  And  I  always 
like  to  keep  a  little  patience  on  hand  for  emergencies." 

"Besides,"  hazarded  Pierre,  "you  have  problems  of  your 
own?" 

"Here  they  come  now,"  said  Billy.  "They  didn't  sleep 
long." 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

SALE   OR  BARTER 

RAINBOLDT  went  home  early,  declining  an  invitation  to 
supper.  Miss  Violet  had  been  kind,  but  Miss  Judith  had 
been  inexplicably  civil.  The  experienced  man  was  hurt  and 
grieved.  His  experience  had  been  gained  in  dealings  with 
other  men.  It  is  held  by  many  that  certain  emotions  affect 
the  judgment  adversely. 

He  passed  the  incoming  stage;  he  climbed  the  steeps  of 
San  Clemente  Pass  at  sundown;  he  turned  at  the  summit  for 
a  red  glimpse  of  the  high  western  plain,  a  shimmering  wedge 
between  the  foothills. 

A  stone  rolled  clatering;  Rainboldt  turned  his  head.  A 
man  rode  down  the  high  trail  from  the  south.  Rainboldt 
waited  for  him. 

"Mr.  Rainboldt,  I  believe?"  said  the  newcomer,  and  flashed 
a  double  row  of  gleaming  teeth. 

"Your  belief  is  well  founded,"  said  Dick.  He  knew  the 
man  by  description;  there  could  be  no  brother  to  that  false, 
toothy  smile,  not  in  San  Clemente.  "And  you  are  Mr.  Spen 
cer?"  Dick  held  the  other  with  his  eyes;  he  slipped  a  silver 
watch  from  his  pocket  to  his  bootleg.  The  thing  was  done 
ostentatiously,  a  palpable  insult.  It  brought  no  abatement 
of  the  white  and  even  teeth. 

"I  wish  to  speak  with  you,  Mr.  Rainboldt,  on  a  matter  of 
some  importance.  I  have  been  waiting  for  you." 

"I  listen." 

"I  am,  as  you  know,  the  manager  of  the  Torpedo.  Mr. 
Connor  has  given  me  golden  opinions  of  you.  He  assures  me 
that  you  are  the  very  man  for  my  purpose." 

"Considering  your  informant,"  said  Dick  slowly  "consid- 

249 


250  WEST    IS    WEST 

ering  yourself,  and  me — I  begin  to  have  opinions  about  your 
purpose." 

The  teeth  expressed  no  resentment. 

"Connor  tells  me  that  you  are  brave  to  a  fault;  reckless. 
You  are  young,  high-spirited,  foot-loose.  You  have  the  world 
before  you  to  choose  from;  you  can  go  where  you  will.  You 
are  out  of  work;  it  is  thought  that  you  are  not  indifferent 
to  money.  May  I  rely  on  your  discretion?" 

"You  mean,  am  I  for  sale?  I  am — for  cash.  Stop  beating 
about  the  bush.  I  get  the  idea,  and  the  words  we  can  save 
for  other  things.  Let's  have  it.  Never  mind  the  sugar-coat 
ing.  I'm  not  squeamish." 

This  plain  speaking  was  not  at  all  to  Spencer's  mind.  He 
had  thought  to  gloss  his  purpose  with  half-words.  He  drew 
back,  disconcerted. 

"Can  I  trust  you?" 

"You  can  trust  me  to  do  exactly  what  you  pay  me  for — 
no  more,  no  less,"  said  Rainboldt  bluntly. 

"But  if  you  do  not  accept  my  offer?" 

Dick  reflected. 

"Short  of  burning  an  orphan  asylum  or  running  a  news 
paper  contest  for  the  most  popular  young  lady,  I'm  your 
man.  If  I  don't  play  I'll  keep  mum,  anyhow.  Give  it  a 
name.  No,  stop  a  little.  Maybe  you  won't  need  to  tell  me. 
Why  don't  you  set  Connor  at  it?  If  it  is  too  strong  for  his 
stomach  you'd  better  keep  still." 

"No,  no;  it's  not  that  at  all,"  said  Spencer  eagerly.  "It's 
this  way.  Connor  and  his  gang  must  not  have  any  part  in 
the  play.  And  the  chief  reason  for  selecting  you  is  that  your 
row  with  Connor  the  other  night  has  identified  you  with  the 
strikers.  No  suspicion  will  fall  on  you." 

"It  is  to  discredit  the  strikers,  then?" 

"Exactly.  The  strike-breakers  must  be  above  suspicion. 
The  play  must  be  pulled  off  when  Connor's  crowd  are  in 
evidence  elsewhere,  so  no  blame  can  possibly  attach  to  them. 
Do  it  at  night.  They'll  all  be  at  the  saloon." 

"Do  what  at  night?  What  do  you  want  to  Fletcherize  your 
talk  for?  You  can't  make  any  deal  with  me  unless  you  speak 
out  of  your  mouth.  What  is  it  you  want  me  to  do?" 

Spencer  lowered  his  voice  to  a  whisper.     "You  know  how 


SALE    OR   BARTER  251 

to  use  dynamite,  of  course?  Yes?  Well,  I  want  you  to  blow 
up  a  tunnel — an  adit." 

"In  the  Torpedo?" 

"Yes.  I'll  show  you  which  one.  We're  running  it  in  to 
drain  the  mine  so  we  can  stop  the  expense  of  pumping." 

"And  you  don't  want  that  expense  stopped?" 

"It  will  give  the  strikers  a  black  eye,"  faltered  Spencer,  dis 
concerted  again. 

"And  you  don't  want  that  expense  stopped?"  repeated  Rain- 
boldt.  "I  need  the  information  to  fix  my  price  by.  Come 
through." 

"Well— no,"  admitted  Spencer. 

"I'll  do  it,"  said  Dick.  "That  will  be  cheap.  I  thought, 
from  the  way  you  went  on,  you  had  a  dirtier  job  to  do. 
Twenty-five  hundred,  cash." 

"I'll  give  you  two  thousand." 

"Good  night  to  you,"  said  Dick,  and  put  his  horse  to  the 
trail. 

"Come  back!  Come  back,  Rainboldt.  I'll  give  you  your 
price." 

"You  sure  will,  if  you  do  business  with  me,"  said  Dick, 
riding  back. 

"But  I  can't  pay  you  in  advance.  You  might  keep  the 
money  and  laugh  at  me." 

"And  if  I  do  your  dirty  work  before  I'm  paid  you  could 
keep  the  money  and  have  a  little  laugh  yourself,"  rejoined 
Dick  tartly.  "I  will  tell  you  what  I  will  do  with  you.  I'll 
draw  straws  to  see  which  one  trusts  the  other.  Or  I'll  play 
you  the  first  game  of  seven-up,  and  not  count  any  turned-up 
jacks." 

"How  would  it  suit  you  if  I  paid  you  half  in  advance  and 
half  after  you  do  the  job." 

"Suits  me.  Fair  enough.  Get  your  dynamite  and  the  cash 
and  I'll  turn  the  trick  to-morrow  night,  after  the  moon  goes 
down." 

"I  can't  have  the  money  to-morrow.  I  have  to  wait  for — 
for  a  certain  person  to  come  back  and  draw  the  money  from 
the  bank.  Come  Wednesday  morning.  Wait  in  the  post  office 
casually.  It  won't  do  for  us  to  be  seen  together.  I'll  drop  in 
to  post  my  letters,  and  hand  you  the  money  when  no  one  is  by. 


252  WEST    IS    WEST 

The  other  half  I'll  give  you  the  same  way — afterward.  Don't 
let  anyone  suspect  that  you  know  me." 

"Make  yourself  easy.  I  indulge  in  few  social  distinctions/' 
said  Dick,  "but  I  have  a  limit.  How  about  the  dynamite?" 

"Day  after  to-morrow  you  get  a  room  at  the  hotel/'  said 
Spencer.  "Register,  go  downtown  and  leave  your  door  un 
locked.  The  stuff  will  be  in  your  room  when  you  get  back — 
in  a  suit  case;  fuse,  caps,  candle  and  all.  Keep  away  from 
Connor  and  his  bunch.  They  mustn't  be  in  the  question." 

"If  a  breath  of  suspicion  falls  on  them  I'll  not  ask  for 
any  more  money/'  said  Dick.  "I'll  do  just  as  you  said — 
touch  her  off  when  your  strike-breakers  are  all  accounted  for 
elsewhere.  You  want  me  to  set  the  stuff  off  at  the  breast 
at  the  far  end  of  the  adit,  of  course?  All  right.  Go!  Vamos! 
Git!  Hope  I  never  see  you  again  after  I  get  my  money." 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

LETTER    OF    THE    CONTRACT 

MR.  RAINBOLDT  followed  his  preliminary  instructions  with 
painstaking  fidelity.  Coming  back  to  the  Ugly  Duckling  he 
found  a  strange  and  perfectly  good  suit  case  in  his  room. 
In  a  thick  letter  which  the  clerk  handed  him  he  found  some 
sheets  of  virgin  paper  and  a  key,  which  key,  upon  trial,  fitted 
the  suit  case  exactly;  a  striking  coincidence. 

"Goods  as  per  invoice,"  said  Dick  with  a  casual  look  at  the 
contents :  Bundled  sticks  of  No.  2  dynamite,  yellow  and  greasy, 
candle-shaped  and  candle-sized;  a  coiled  fuse;  inch-long  ful- 
minuating  caps  wrapped  in  wool  and  packed  in  a  little,  square 
tin  box;  a  candle  and  a  miner's  candlestick.  Dick  locked  up 
the  yellow  death  again  and  put  it  aside  indifferently.  At 
that  same  time  and  motion  he  put  it  from  his  mind.  His 
thoughts  went  back  to  the  stirring  events  of  the  past  evening, 
which,  for  the  better  avoidance  of  the  strike  breakers,  he  had 
spent  at  the  home  of  Miss  Violet  Armstrong. 

Dick  frowned.  He  was  eminently  human  and  had  been 
frankly  pleased  that  those  three  young  men  had  so  unhesi 
tatingly  accepted  him  as  comrade  and  leader.  He  had  liked 
those  young  men  at  first;  now  he  was  not  so  certain.  Pierre 
talked  too  much;  Dowlin  was  too  silent;  Billy  was  too  good- 
looking.  Besides,  they  stuck  round  so,  always  underfoot. 
Violet  was  charming  certainly,  and  beautiful.  But  she  was 
wanting  in  tact.  Dick  frowned  again. 

He  sat  in  the  moonlight  for  a  long  time,  propping  his  face 
on  his  hands.  It  was  an  unhappy  young  face.  The  mouth, 
softened  of  late  by  laughter,  took  on  the  old  hard  lines  again. 
He  roused  himself  with  an  effort. 

253 


254  WEST    IS    WEST 

"This  won't  do,"  he  muttered.  "I'll  see  this  Torpedo  stunt 
out  and  then  I'll  move  on.  No  place  for  you,  Dickie." 

He  flung  himself  on  the  bed  to  broken  slumber;  and  Judith 
Elliott's  face  came  softly  to  his  troubled  dreams,  warm  and 
dim  and  tinted,  smiling  and  kind. 

He  rose  late  and  broke  his  fast  leisurely;  he  sauntered 
downtown  and  idled  away  the  morning.  As  he  lounged  slowly 
into  the  post  office,  Alfred  Spencer  bustled  through,  his  brisk 
diligence  a  reproach  to  Dick's  loitering.  As  Spencer  brushed 
by,  Dick  felt  something  against  his  hand.  His  fingers  closed 
upon  it  and  he  passed  on  to  the  sloping  pine  desk  built  against 
the  wall  for  the  accommodation  of  the  public.  Here  he  looked 
at  what  he  held  in  his  hand.  It  was  a  long  and  bulky  en 
velope,  sealed  and  unaddressed.  Dick  thrust  it  in  his  pocket, 
yawning.  On  later  examination,  he  found  within  it  a  sheaf 
of  bills. 

Dick  strolled  to  his  hotel.  He  lifted  up  his  eyes  to  see 
the  workings  of  the  Torpedo-Sundown  sprawled  along  the 
brown  hill:  the  red  engine  house,  long  and  squat;  the  black 
gallows-frame  of  the  hoist  against  the  skyline ;  the  great  gray 
dump  tumbling  far  and  far ;  the  wagon  roads,  cut  deep  into 
the  long  hillside;  between  the  windings  of  these  roads,  the 
scars  of  lesser  shafts  or  probing  tunnels.  Lowest  of  these, 
scarcely  above  the  level  of  Rainboldt's  eyes,  was  the  black 
mouth  of  the  lowest  tunnel,  the  one  which  was  to  drain  the 
mine ;  lower  down  and  somewhat  to  the  right  was  another  long 
red  building,  the  boarding  house  of  the  Torpedo-Sundown, 
facing  San  Clemente's  outmost  street.  On  the  opposite  side 
of  the  street  from  the  red  boarding  house  stood  a  weather- 
beaten  twin  to  it,  the  boarding  house  of  the  Modoc.  The 
Modoc  marched  with  the  Torpedo,  on  the  same  lode,  but  the 
mine  had  been  less  fortunate  than  its  big  neighbor. 

At  the  tunnel  mouth  a  little  car,  one  man  power,  shambled 
in  and  out,  adding  its  mite  to  the  fan-shaped  dump.  As  Dick 
watched,  the  car  was  shunted  on  a  little  side  track  and  left 
there ;  the  power  went  whistling  down  the  hill  to  the  boarding 
house. 

"Nearly  noon,"  said  Dick.    He  looked  at  his  watch. 

Men  came  from  the  tunnel,  three,  four,  six;  their  faint  and 
breeze-born  laughter  carried  thin  to  Dick's  ear  across  the  deep 


LETTER    OF   THE    CONTRACT     255 

arroyo.  Another  man  came  from  the  blackness  into  the  sun, 
a  smaller  man,  Connor;  he  cupped  his  hands  and  bellowed 
to  the  sky  the  miner's  warning  of  set  shots: 

"Fire!     Fire!" 

He  ran  down  the  winding  trail.  Then  came  the  muffled 
deep  report  of  the  blasting,  deep  in  the  hill — five  shots,  six, 
seven,  eight.  After  a  little  a  thin  wisp  of  smoke  drifted  from 
the  tunnel.  Another  bunch  of  miners  came  down  the  hill 
from  the  main  shaft. 

Dick  picked  up  his  new  suit  case  and  sauntered  through 
the  office. 

"Hi,  you!"  said  Oleander.  "Dinner'll  be  ready  in  half  a 
mo'.  Ten  minutes  to  twelve.  Better  wait." 

"I'll  be  back  after  a  bit,"  said  Dick.  "I'm  just  going  out 
to  commit  an  outrage  on  a  friend." 

Dick  climbed  to  the  hill  in  the  white  glare  of  noon.  Smoke 
and  the  poisonous  fumes  of  dynamite  were  still  thick  in  the 
tunnel.  Dick  sat  on  his  suit  case  in  the  sun  and  waited  for 
the  air  to  clear.  He  cut  off  a  generous  length  of  fuse  and 
fixed  a  cap  to  it. 

"I've  got  to  set  it  off  at  the  breast,  just  as  I  agreed,"  said 
Dick  aloud.  "I'm  going  to  give  my  respected  employer  the 
exact  letter  of  my  contract." 

After  a  little  he  lit  his  candle;  he  tied  a  handkerchief  over 
his  nose  and  trotted  along  the  rails  till  he  came  to  the  broken 
rock  from  the  noon  shots.  Beyond  this  he  fixed  his  bundles 
of  dynamite  in  the  fissures  left  by  the  last  shots ;  he  split  the 
end  of  the  fuse;  he  cut  open  a  stick  of  the  powder,  and  took 
a  bean-sized  bit  of  it  on  the  point  of  his  knife;  sticky,  oily, 
granular  stuff,  about  the  consistency  of  mashed  bread  crumbs. 
He  fixed  this  dynamite-bean  between  the  jaws  of  the  split 
fuse;  he  held  the  candle  to  it.  The  dynamite  spluttered, 
sparkling;  the  fuse  hissed.  Dick  grabbed  up  the  empty  suit 
case,  stumbled  over  the  broken  rocks  and  took  to  his  heels. 

"Fire !"  he  bellowed  from  the  dump.    "Fire !" 

His  cupping  hands  guided  the  warning  directly  at  the  Tor 
pedo  boarding  house.  No  one  answered;  the  men  were  deep 
in  dinner.  Dick  walked  aside  to  a  safe  distance,  sat  placidly 
on  his  suit  case,  rolled  a  smoke,  lit  it,  and  turned  admiring 
eyes  to  the  sunlit  peaks  across  the  sky. 


256  WEST    IS    WEST 

A  miner  came  from  the  boarding  house,  whistling;  he  walked 
leisurely  up  the  winding  trail,  picking  his  teeth.  Dick  called 
to  him. 

"Don't  go  up  there,  brother.     I'm  blowing  the  tunnel  up." 

"What's  that?" 

"I'm  blowing  up  the  tunnel,"  repeated  Dick  patiently.  "It 
ought  to  go  off  any  minute  now.  Bring  your  toothpick  over 
here  and  sit  down." 

The  miner  stared,  laughed  and  went  on.  Dick's  gun  flashed 
out. 

"You  long,  tall  son  of  Satan,  make  tracks  over  here  and 
make  'em  quick !  I  don't  want  your  blood  on  my  head.  You'll 
be  blown  to  bits,  you  fool!  Come  over  here  or  I'll  shoot  you 
in  a  holy  second !" 

The  man  came,  muttering.     His  face  expressed  incredulity. 

"I  cut  about  a  five-minute  fuse,"  said  Dick  sociably,  "but 
it's  been  most  a  week  already.  Sit  down;  it  won't  be  long 
now.  Hi !  There  comes  a  team !" 

A  wagon  crawled  up  the  nearest  road.  Dick  stood  up  and 
shouted. 

"Fire !  Go  back,  you  fool,  I'm  blowing  up  the  mine  !  Beat 
it,  or  your  horses  will  run  away  when  the  dynamite  goes  off." 

The  wagon  whirled  and  went  off  at  a  gallop. 

"There,  he's  all  right  now,"  said  Dick  with  a  sigh  of  relief, 
when  the  wagon  reached  the  bottom.  "His  team  can't  run 
away  much  in  that  deep  sand.  Have  a  smoke?" 

With  roar  and  crash  the  hill  shuddered  under  their  feet; 
smoke  and  dust  billowed  from  the  tunnel-mouth.  Far  above 
them  a  section  of  the  hillside  upheaved  with  a  great  shock 
and  settled  again  with  a  puff  of  dust;  dislodged  boulders 
rolled  crashing  into  the  arroyo;  the  echoes  crowded  and 
thundered. 

"Some  ear-splittin',  what?"  observed  Dick  complacently. 
"You'd  better  run  along  now,  son,  and  roll  your  hoop.  You 
don't  want  to  be  mixed  up  in  this — the  witty  idea  is  to  have 
the  strikers  take  the  blame  for  it." 

The  strike-breaker  waited  for  no  further  permission.  He 
looked  back  once  with  a  white,  scared  face.  Then  he  made 
off  at  a  canter. 

Below,  San  Clemente  swarmed  from  all  its  doors.     Men 


LETTER   OF   THE    CONTRACT     257 

ran  shouting  from  along  the  trail  to  the  mine;  men  on  horse 
back  poured  from  every  street.  The  wagoner  shouted  to  them ; 
he  stood  up  and  lashed  his  horses. 

Dick  sat  on  his  suit  case  and  smoked. 

The  strike-breakers  broke  from  the  boarding  house  on  a 
run.  They  carried  rifles  and  six-shooters.  They  had  not 
time  to  guess  what  they  might  expect,  from  this  unexpected 
development;  Dick's  captive  had  been  incoherent.  But  Connor 
was  taking  no  chances ;  he  shepherded  his  flock  across  the  hill 
on  a  quartering  course  to  a  clump  of  bowlders.  They  took 
cover  like  wounded  partridges. 

The  men  from  the  Modoc  house  and  the  neighbor  shacks 
were  first  to  arrive.  They  halted  at  a  little  distance  from 
Dick  and  stared,  incredulous;  they  huddled  together,  waiting 
for  reinforcements.  The  first  horsemen  crowded  by  them, 
Dowlin,  Doc  Hughes,  Billy  and  J.  C.;  old  Wigfall,  afoot, 
pushed  to  join  them;  others  dribbled  forward. 

Dick  threw  his  cigarette  away. 

"Good  evenin',"  he  said  pleasantly,  nodding  to  J.  C. 

J.  C.'s  face  was  a  fine  plum  color. 

"You,  Rainboldt !"  he  thundered.    "What  in " 

"Don't  yell  at  me,'  said  Dick  resentfully.  "I  don't  like 
it.  Take  it  easy.  No  hurry.  What  is  it  you  wished  to 
know?" 

"I  can't  believe  you  had  any  hand  in  it,"  said  the  plum- 
colored  one,  calming  himself  with  an  effort.  "But  that  fellow 
on  the  wagon  says  you  told  him  you  were  going  to  blow  up 
the  adit.  What  did  you  mean  by  that?" 

"I  was  afraid  he  would  get  hurt,"  said  Dick  truthfully. 

"Afraid  he'd  be  hurt!  Afraid "  J.  C.  choked  on  his 

emotions.  "And  you  a  guest  at  my  house !"  he  gurgled. 

"I  don't  see  what  me  visitin'  at  your  house  has  to  do  with 
it,"  said  Dick  respectfully  but  firmly.  "I  wasn't  your  guest 
anyway.  You  didn't  invite  me." 

"Did  you  blow  up  this  mine?" 

"Sure  I  did.     Why  not?     I  was  hired  to  do  it  by " 

"Arrest  that  man!  Where's  that  fool  deputy?  Gone,  of 
course.  Arrest  him  somebody — throw  a  gun  down  on  him." 

"Why,  I  wouldn't  do  that,"  said  Dick  mildly.  "I  haven't 
done  anything  wrong.  I  was  employed " 


258  WEST    IS   WEST 

"Damn  your  heart!" 

"You'd  better  hear  to  what  he's  got  to  say,  Armstrong," 
urged  Dowlin.  "He's  got  something  up  his  sleeve  besides 
his  arm.  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about.  Give  him  a  chance." 

"Give  him  a  noose  about  his  neck!"  bawled  J.  C. 

"Now,  that'll  be  about  all  from  you,"  said  Dick.  "If  you 
had  a  lick  of  sense  you'd  know  that  no  man  would  be  doing 
this  for  fun.  Keep  still!  As  I  was  about  to  say  when  you 
so  rudely  interrupted  me,  I  was  hired  to  blow  up  this  mine 
by  the  properly  constituted  authorities.  Where  did  I  get  my 
dynamite?  I  didn't  buy  it  at  the  stores.  Ask  'em.  I  didn't 
bring  it  when  I  came.  It  was  furnished  to  me  by  my 
employer." 

"Who?  WTho?"  gasped  J.  C.  But  his  face  showed  that 
he  already  sensed  some  part  of  the  situation. 

"I  couldn't  tell  you  that,"  said  Dick  firmly.  "You  wouldn't 
believe  me  if  I  did.  It  would  just  be  my  word  against  his. 
And  I  promised — it  was  implied,  anyhow — that  I  wouldn't 
mention  his  name.  So  I  won't.  But  I'll  tell  you  what  I  will 
do.  You  send  some  of  these  riders  around  town,  telling  them 
to  scatter,  as  if  they  were  trying  to  prevent  anyone  from 
leaving  town,  but  to  be  sure  to  let  anybody  go  that  tries  to, 
unless  you  want  a  lynching-bee.  If  you  do,  catch  him.  Then 
start  a  solid  body  of  your  infantry  straight  to  town,  letting 
one  man  go  in  front  with  a  highly  visible  rope.  Just  one  man 
in  San  Clemente  will  make  a  get-away;  he'll  hit  the  short 
trail  for  the  railroad;  and  I'll  bet  you  any  money  you  like 
that  you'll  find  that  man's  name  written  on  this  paper."  He 
took  an  envelope  from  his  pocket,  wrote  a  name  on  it,  folded 
it,  and  handed  it  to  Pierre  Hines,  who  had  just  pushed  his 
way  through. 

"We'll  do  it,"  said  Dowlin.  "I'll  go  with  the  horsemen. 
Wigfall,  you  manage  the  other  crowd.  They're  mostly  your 
men.  Here's  a  rope." 

"Wait  a  minute,  Wigfall.  I  got  good  pay  for  this  job — half 
down.  And  I  want  to  donate  it  to  your  strikers'  fund."  Dick 
tossed  over  the  package  of  bills.  "That's  only  fair.  The 
idea  was  that  the  strikers  were  to  get  credit  for  the  job,  so 
they  ought  to  have  the  cash." 

Some  one  cursed  with  a  great  voice.     The  crowd  trampled 


LETTER   OF   THE    CONTRACT     259 

and  swayed ;  the  mutter  of  many  voices  swelled  to  an  ominous 
growl.  Dick  held  up  his  hand. 

"Wait!  It  was  planned  that  I  should  dynamite  the  tunnel 
when  none  of  the  strike-breakers  would  be  accused  of  having 
a  hand  in  it.  I  did  just  that.  They  were  all  down  at  dinner, 
as  the  Modoc  men  can  testify.  But  my  employer  forgot  to 
stipulate  that  I  was  to  make  a  get-away  myself.  So  I  didn't. 
I  gave  him  his  money's  worth,  to  a  cent — exactly  what  he  bar 
gained  for.  He  is  a  frightened  man,  this  minute.  Now  go, 
you  fellows.  Not  you  Wigfall;  you  stay  here.  I  want  to 
settle  this  strike." 

Twenty  horsemen  set  out  at  a  gallop  to  circle  the  town. 
The  Torpedoes  detached  themselves  from  the  crowd  and 
plunged  down  the  hill,  led  by  Pendravis. 

"By  George,  they  mean  business !  That's  no  play/'  said 
Pierre.  "There  he  goes  !" 

A  horseman  flashed  from  the  corrals  behind  the  Torpedo 
offices ;  he  raced  down  the  long  street  and  turned  at  top  speed 
into  the  river  trail,  the  short  cut  to  the  outer  world. 

"Spencer!"  said  J.  C. 

The  Torpedoes  hung  along  the  hill  and  howled  their  hate. 
Pierre  opened  his  folded  paper. 

"I  find  written  here"'  he  said  with  great  tranquility,  "the 
name  of  A.  Spencer.  So  that  incident  is  closed.  Sorry  not 
to  be  able  to  say  'I  told  you  so/  Mr.  Armstrong;  but  you 
wouldn't  let  us  tell  you  anything." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

\OU    NEVER    CAN    TELL 

J.  C.  spoke  to  Rainboldt  in  a  chastened  voice. 

"Young  man,  it  is  evident  that  you  mean  well  by  us.  But 
why  not  have  told  me?  Why  blow  up  a  perfectly  good  tun 
nel?  It  will  cost  money  to  make  that  good." 

"You  wouldn't  have  believed  me  for  any  amount  of  telling," 
said  Dick,  bluntly.  "Besides,  I  promised  not  to  mention  the 
name  of  the  man  who  is  now  running  away  on  that  horse.  Had 
to  jar  you  enough  to  get  your  attention.  Wigfall  tried  to  talk 
sense  to  you,  and  you  bawled  him  down;  your  nephew  tried 
to  tell  you  that  you  were  being  used  to  your  own  hurt,  and 
you  wouldn't  listen  to  a  word.  You  roared  him  down.  But 
you  can't  roar  down  fifty  sticks  of  dynamite.  I've  got  your 
attention;  Mr.  Spencer  has  obliged  by  pleading  guilty;  now 
perhaps  you  will  listen  while  I  tell  you  a  few  things  which 
will  save  you  the  cost  of  several  or  more  tunnels.  You  can 
verify  my  statements  later,  but  they're  true  now."  Dick  took 
off  his  hat  and  fanned  himself  languidly. 

"Go  on,"  said  J.  C.  meekly. 

"There's  been  a  big  body  of  rich  ore  found  in  your  mine, 
and  it's  been  kept  quiet.  Spencer  forced  a  strike.  The  play 
was  to  buy  up  the  stock  at  starvation  prices.  The  mine  was 
to  be  tied  up— What's  that?" 

It  was  a  rifle  shot  from  a  deserted  house  beyond  the  valley ; 
it  was  followed  by  a  dozen  more,  the  steady  pumping  of  a 
repeater.  The  bullets  whined  above  them  and  splattered  on 
the  rocks  where  Connor's  crew  had  taken  refuge.  A  single 
shot  made  answer;  then  silence  fell  on  Fort  Connor. 

"Hell's  bells !  We'll  have  a  regular  war.  Duck !  No, 
stand  still,  everybody.  Don't  sLoot.  Give  me  that  white 
handkerchief,  Pierre." 

260 


YOU   NEVER   CAN    TELL         261 

Dick  snatched  the  scrap  of  linen;  waving  it,  both  hands 
held  high  above  his  head,  he  marched  straight  up  the  hill  to 
Connor's  fortress,  the  sunlight  in  his  sunny  hair. 

Bullets  plumped  into  the  dust  close  beside  him;  the  unseen 
gunman  seemed  to  have  changed  his  mark.  "Don't  shoot, 
Connor,"  cried  Dick.  His  voice  was  clear,  cheerful  and  un 
hurried.  "This  is  another  put-up  job.  Don't  bite.  It  is 
none  of  our  doing.  But  if  your  men  fire  back,  these  fool 
Welshmen  will  be  neither  to  hold  nor  to  bind.  They're  worked 
up  to  mischief.  Keep  out  of  sight  and  you  can't  be  hurt. 
We'll  come  up  as  hostages,  if  you  say  so — anyone  you  want." 

"I'll  do  the  best  I  can  for  you"  replied  Connor's  voice. 
"You  go  back  and  hold  down  your  wolves  if  you  can;  you 
can  do  us  more  good  there  than  here.  You'd  better  hurry. 
That  gunman  is  reloading,  I  judge,  and  he  seems  to  have 
it  in  for  you." 

"Lucky  you  fellows  didn't  give  him  a  volley,"  said  Dick. 
"Good  judgment.  If  you  had  there'd  have  been  a  battle." 

"Ain't  it  the  truth?"  said  Connor.  "Go  back,  you  fool, 
before  that  fellow  shoots  you.  Take  your  men  away.  Don't 
let  any  of  them  try  to  slip  round  behind  us,  or  I  can't  answer 
for  mine.  Say,  we  seem  to  have  lost  our  job,  don't  we?" 

"I  reckon,"  said  Dick.  He  turned  to  go.  "Hello  !  They've 
got  our  friend  with  the  gun." 

A  little  man  with  a  six-shooter  came  from  behind  the  old 
house,  driving  a  taller  man  before  him.  The  prisoner  held 
back,  imploring;  his  captor  fell  upon  him  with  kicks  and  cuffs 
and  forced  him  down  toward  the  valley.  Dick  began  to  run. 

The  Torpedoes,  the  horsemen,  the  crowd  by  the  tunnel,  were 
all  in  motion,  converging  toward  the  valley ;  most  of  the  hith 
erto  prudent  citizens  were  running  now  from  the  town  to  the 
valley.  The  little  man  paused  on  a  shoulder  and  called  to 
the  oncoming  mob. 

"Here's  your  gunman!  It's  Clem  Gray!  Do  you  want 
him?" 

A  rope  was  over  a  limb  when  Dick  reached  the  valley, 
breathless.  The  mob  crowded  upon  Gray  with  howls  and 
curses.  Dick  shouldered  his  way  roughly. 

"Hearrken  to  Breen,"  cried  the  bull  voice  of  Caradoc 
Hughes.    "Let  him  bear  witness." 


262  WEST    IS 

"Breen!    Breen!" 

"There's  not  much  to  tell,"  said  the  little  man.  "  'Twas 
Gray  that  did  the  shootin'.  I  was  close  behind,  making  for 
my  old  mare,  having  a  mind  bent  to  keep  out  of  trouble.  But 
I  saw  that  this  devil  of  a  Gray  was  goin'  to  start  something. 
Then  says  I  to  myself:  'Breen,  you've  been  minding  your  own 
business  these  forty  year.  'Tis  a  pernicious  habit.'  So  when 
he  was  loading  up  his  gun  again,  I  took  him.  That's  all. 
'Tis  up  to  you." 

"Hang  him!     Oop  wi'  him!" 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  do  that,"  said  Dick  mildly. 

"And  whoi  not?" 

"He  might  not  come  to  again,"  said  Dick  sensibly  enough. 

The  other  glared.  He  was  a  burly  miner  of  the  Torpedoes 
and  one  that  had  not  seen  Dick  before. 

"Close  thy  mouth,  young  hop-o'-my-thumb,  or  happen  we'll 
swing  'ee  besoide  him !" 

"Shame,  Daave !  'Tis  young  Rainboldt.  Has  been  good 
friend  to  thee  and  thoine  this  daay.  But  t'other — oot  upon 
him !  Would  have  sold  us  to  blood  and  shame !" 

Dick  was  hustled  aside ;  snarling  horribly,  the  mob  closed 
in  upon  Gray.  The  loop  dropped  on  his  neck. 

"Hang  him!     Hang  him!" 

A  counter  shout  went  up  at  the  crowd's  edge ;  a  louder  cry, 
in  which  horror  and  desperate  fear  were  blended. 

Drawn  by  a  galloping  horse,  a  buggy  thundered  across  the 
arroyo,  leaping,  rocking,  swinging.  It  drove  a  path  through 
the  crowd ;  men  made  way  for  it,  fell  back  from  it,  white- 
faced,  and  ran  for  life.  Old  Mendenhall  stood  up  in  the 
buggy,  a  terrible  figure,  his  eyes  aflame,  his  white  hair  flying 
in  the  wind.  One  hand  lashed  the  horse,  the  other  held  the 
loose  reins  and  also  a  cocked  six-shooter;  and  the  six-shooter 
was  pointed  accurately  at  an  open  box  on  the  seat  beside 
him,  a  fifty-pound  box  of  dynamite.  The  horse  plowed  to 
a  stop. 

The  crowd  grew  very  still.    Then  said  Mendenhall: 

"Let  that  boy  go  or  I'll  blow  you  all  to  hell  in  a  hand- 
basket!"  His  eyebrows  bristled.  "Move!  Take  off  that  rope. 
Get  a  rifle,  Clemmy  boy.  Get  you  a  horse,  and  go.  Don't 


YOU   NEVER   CAN   TELL         263 

anybody  move   a  step.      The   first  man  that  puts   hand   to 
gun  I  pull  the  trigger.     I'll  hold  'em,  Clem.    You  drag  it.'* 

"Take  my  horse/'  said  Dowlin  gently.  "You  want  to  watch 
him.  He  stumbles  a  little,  going  downhill.  You  do  what  your 
uncle  says,  Gray.  He  is  a  fine  old  man." 

But  Gray  caught  a  rifle  from  an  unresisting  hand,  he  cocked 
it,  he  ran  to  the  buggy  and  pressed  the  muzzle  against  the 
dynamite. 

"You  go,  Uncle  Hermie,  I'll  hold  'em !  I  got  you  into  this 
mess." 

"The  Lord  be  praised — this  is  old  Pete's  boy!"  cried  Men- 
denhall.  "That  I  have  lived  to  see  this  day !  Thank'ee  kindly, 
Clem,  but  I  couldn't  do  that.  I'm  full  of  years;  I'll  be 
noways  sorry  to  slip  away  from  the  hubbub." 

"Can't  we  both  of  us  get  away,  Uncle  Hermie?" 

"It  couldn't  be  done,  boy.  I  can't  ride  fast,  with  this  bad 
leg  of  mine.  They  wouldn't  have  any  trouble  to  overtake  us 
even  if  we  could  make  a  start.  They  would  just  ride  round 
and  get  us  from  ambush.  No  good.  But  I'm  glad  you  made 
the  offer.  Good-by,  Clemmy." 

"Coom  on,  lads.  Let's  go  whoam!"  It  was  old  Wigfall, 
and  his  rough  voice  thrilled.  "Happen  there's  worse  men  than 
these.  To  whoam  wi'  you !" 

"Taake  my  horse,  Mr.  Mendenhall,"  said  Doc  Hughes 
gruffly.  "And  here's  my  gun.  We  wouldna  give  ye  rifles 
if  we  meant'ee  ony  harm.  I'll  mind  the  beastie  that  the  pooder 
does  not  go  off  by  accident.  'Twould  be  a  great  pity.  Be  off 
wi'  you,  now.  San  Clemente  is  no  place  at  all  for  you." 

"You  have  given  me  back  my  boy."  Mendenhall's  voice 
shook  a  little;  only  a  little.  "Gentlemen,  I  thank  you  kindly. 
He  has  the  makin's — old  Pete's  boy.  We're  going — and  we're 
going  to  work  with  our  hands  till  I  make  a  man  of  him.  If 
I  have  to  reform  myself  to  do  it,  I'm  going  to  make  a  man 
of  him.  And  when  that  day  comes  we're  coming  back  to  live 
at  San  Clemente." 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

MEDDLING  OF  MR.  BREEN 

THAT  night  Emil  James  and  Pat  Breen  sat  in  the  cool  and 
freshness  before  the  Square-and-Compass  house,  and  watched 
the  trembling  moon  rise  over  the  desert.  As  they  smoked  in 
silence,  a  ghostly  rider  drove  a  phantom  band  of  horses  across 
the  wavering  lines  of  moonlight,  doubled  and  turned  and 
headed  them  back,  and  pushed  them  into  the  corral  at  last. 

"That's  Dick,  confound  him !"  said  Emil. 

"Ay."  Breen  tapped  out  his  pipe.  "Emil,"  he  said  aftei 
a  little,  "I  mistrust  all  is  not  well  with  the  lad." 

"And  in  a  case  like  that?" 

"Nothing,  of  course.  What  could  we  do?  But,"  added 
Breen,  with  some  irritation,  "were  the  cases  changed  now — if 
I  who  am  old  were  five-and-twenty  and  it  was  Dick  Rain- 
boldt  was  five-and-sixty,  Dick  would  find  a  way.  I'll  be 
bound  for  that." 

"He's  catching  a  horse,"  said  Emil.  "Now,  what's  that 
for?  I  thought  he  was  just  driving  in  a  bunch  to  turn  his 
bronc'  loose  with." 

They  heard  Dick's  saddle  come  off  with  a  thump;  the  big 
gate  was  opened  and  a  band  of  horses  trotted  out.  Then  the 
little  yard  gate  clicked  and  Dick  came  up  the  path,  leading 
Wiseman. 

"And  now  where  have  you  been,  you  jungle  cat?"  demanded 
Emil.  "Since  the  fireworks,  I  mean?  Oh,  Breen  told  me  all 
about  it.  They're  makin'  a  big  to-do  about  you  in  San  Cle- 
mente.  Goin'  to  run  you  for  town  pump." 

"Hello,  that  you,  Mr.  Breen?  Then  that  was  your  horse 
back  in  the  branding  corral.  Goin'  to  stay  all  night  with  us  ?" 
said  Dick. 

264 


MEDDLING   OF   MR.   BREEN     265 

"No,  I  just  stopped  in  for  supper  and  a  little  chat  with 
my  old  friend  here.  Where  did  you  go,  boy  ?  There's  nothing 
too  good  for  you  in  San  Clemente  now,  let  me  tell  you  that. 
They  sent  a  bunch  over  here  hot-foot  to  find  you,  but  they 
didn't  even  find  Emil.  He  was  down  to  Willow.  Where  was 
you,  Rainboldt?" 

"Oh,  I  went  nosin'  round  the  hills,  huntin*  old  Wiseman. 
Missed  him  the  first  time;  didn't  find  him  till  near  dark.  He 
was  hidin'  out  on  me,  the  old  rascal.  Then  the  bunch  didn't 
want  to  come,  and  my  bronco  misbehaved  on  me  when  I 
wasn't  watching — nearly  piled  me,  too." 

"Why,  what  do  you  want  of  Wiseman,"  said  Emil.  "Where 
are  you  going?" 

"  'Way,  'way  off,"  said  Dick.  "I'm  going  to  oil  the  hinges 
of  the  Golden  Gate.  Can  you  let  me  have  some  corn  and  a 
block  of  hay  for  the  horse,  Emil?" 

"Dick,"  said  Emil,  "don't  you  go  away  now;  don't  you! 
You've  got  things  coming  your  way.  Stay  with  it,  boy.  We'd 
hate  to  lose  you." 

"Every  chick  and  child  in  San  Clemente  is  your  friend," 
urged  the  old  miner.  "Even  Connor.  'That's  a  fine  lad/  he 
said  to  me,  just  before  he  left.  'Why,  Breen,  that  man's  got 
sense!  Tell  him  for  me,'  he  says,  'any  time  he  goes  broke 
to  drop  me  a  card — Clay  Connor,  Australia  N.  W.:  Please 
forward  to  Alaska,'  he  says." 

"Connor  has  gone,  then?" 

"Every  hair  of  him.  Chartered  a  Mexican  freight  wagon 
and  they  pulled  out  for  a  night  ride  to  the  river." 

"Had  any  supper,  Dick?  There's  plenty  cooked.  I'll  light 
up.  Feed  your  horse." 

"I'll  be  with  you  in  three-eighths  of  a  jiffy/'  said  Dick  in  a 
wretched  attempt  at  light-heartedness.  He  clanked  on  to  the 
little  stable.  Emil  lit  the  lamp.  Breen  put  the  coffee  pot 
on  the  coals. 

"He's  going,"  said  Emil. 

"He  is  that.  Blow  high,  blow  low,  he  must  be  forth  from 
this  place." 

At  the  bench  outside  Dick  washed  his  face  and  hands  with, 
a  great  spluttering,  and  came  in  groping  for  the  towel. 


266  WEST    IS    WEST 

"You're  not  going  to  leave  us,  Dick?"  said  Breen.  In  the 
lamplight  his  little  old  face  was  puckered  with  distress. 
"There  are  some  who  will  miss  you." 

"Nine  days,  perhaps,"  said  Dick  bitterly.  "No,  I  didn't 
mean  that.  Some  of  you  are  good  friends.  But  I  must  go." 

"Well,  then;  I'll  be  jogging  home  myself.  I'm  sorry  it's 
that  way  with  you,  boy.  Good-by,  then — and  good  luck  to 
you !" 

"The  same  to  you,"  said  Dick.     "So  long!" 

Where  the  trail  forked  the  old  Irishman  paused,  irresolute. 
He  mumbled  to  himself. 

"Gray  they  were — Katy's  eyes.  A  good  lass,  a  merry  lass. 
Dust  she  is,  these  two  and  twenty  years,  and  her  young  babe 
in  her  arms.  How  would  you  have  me  do,  little  wife?  . 
Have  your  own  way  of  it,  then.  It  has  been  many  a  year 
since  I  have  cared  to  make  or  to  mar;  but  I've  meddled 
already  once  to-day;  please  God,  I'll  meddle  once  more  this 
night — for  Katy's  sake." 

He  turned  up  the  San  Clemente  trail. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

ROBIN'S  NOT  HERE 

"Is  it  not  brave  to  be  a  King,  Tecfielles, 
Usumcusane,  and  Theridames, 
Is  it  not  passing  brave  to  be  a  King, 
And  ride  in  triumph  through  Persepolis?" 

IT  WAS  brave  ranting;  she  mouthed  the  sonorous,  many- 
syllabled  names ;  proud  step  and  princely  hand  were  purposely 
mock  heroic.  But  the  high-poised  head,  the  kindling  eye,  the 
proud  thrill  in  her  gay  young  voice — these  were  unconscious 
and  above  all  assuming. 

"Judith!     How  you  do  go  on!" 

"But  your  king  didn't  ride  in  triumph  through  San  Cle- 
mente,  Judith,"  teased  Billy.  "He  slipped  away  like — 
like " 

"Mist.  The  Arab.  A  snake,  'a  long,  slickery  snake/ 
Morning  dew.  An  eye-opener.  A  stack  of  whites.  Your 
summer's  wages.  Billy,  you're  failing,"  said  Pierre.  "I  no 
ticed  it  on  you  this  afternoon.  Even  our  Abysmal  Ed  unlim- 
bered  himself  for  a  few  well-chosen  remarks ;  but  you  didn't 
•have  a  word  to  throw  at  a  dog." 

"Right  you  are.  I  would  have  given  most  anything  for  a 
soapstone,"  laughed  Billy.  "It  wasn't  so  much  that  I  was 
scared,  either;  I  was  only  reasonably  scared.  But  my  poor 
wits  couldn't  quite  keep  up  with  the  procession.  It  was  just 
one  simple  little  thing  after  another.  Happenin'  in  the 
simplest  way,  too.  No  preliminaries ;  no  introductions  ;  no  ex 
planations  ;  no  flourishes.  Just  happened.  Then  some  more 
happened." 

"To  my  mind,  if  I  may  be  permitted  to  use  such  a  term," 
said  Dowlin,  "the  best  little  thing  that  Judith's  young  man 

267 


268  WEST    IS    WEST 

did  was  stickin'  up  his  hands  and  the  white  flag — makin'  terms 
with  Connor.  It  may  have  been  crowded  from  notice  by  more 
spectacular  happenings,  but  that  was  really  the  big  stunt  of 
this  eventful  day.  Anybody's  got  nerve.  But  it  took  brains 
to  do  that." 

"Hear,  hear!" 

"Now  you  stop  pickin'  on  Ed,"  snapped  Violet. 

"Then  my  young  man,  as  you  call  him,  prevented  a  general 
fight,  you  think?"  said  Judith. 

"General  fight  is  right.  Relations  were  distinctly  strained. 
A  massacre,  as  far  as  our  own  little  bunch  was  concerned. 
Ask  Billy.  Ask  Pierre — that  will  be  better." 

"Far  better,"  agreed  Billy.  "I  haven't  caught  up  yet.  I've 
got  as  far  as  where  old  man  Mendenhall  started  to  do  a  Paul 
Revere.  But  I'm  still  speculatin'  on  why  he  didn't  jar  the 
giant  powder  off,  and  if  so,  why  not  and  what  next?  That 
old  chaise  of  his  was  proceedin'  from  thither  to  whence  by 
great  leaps  and  bounds  when  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  it,  dyna 
mite  gayly  bobbin'  up  and  down  and  the  old  gentleman  steady- 
in'  it  with  his  knee.  Fine !" 

"But  we  wander  from  Judith's  young  man,"  said  Pierre. 
"My  opinion  was  asked,  I  believe.  I  string  along  with  Ed. 
In  my  judgment  we  missed  war  by  one  clipped  second;  and 
Rainboldt  used  that  second.  Connor's  men  had  the  bulge  on 
our  crowd;  we  were  in  the  open.  'Twould  have  been  the  sur 
vival  of  the  fleetest  for  us.  It  would  have  marred  a  pleasant 
afternoon.  Then  Connor's  men  would  have  been  picked  off, 
one  at  a  time,  from  up  the  hill." 

"I  don't  think  you're  fair  to  Mr.  Connor,"  said  Violet.  "He 
wouldn't  let  his  men  shoot  back  at  Clem  Gray,  you  said.  Don't 
you  give  him  any  credit  for  that?" 

"Hello,  young  people!  Holding  a  post  mortem?"  It  was 
J.  C.,  benevolent  in  the  doorway. 

"We  were  just  commenting  on  young  Rainboldt's  manage 
ment  of  you,  Uncle  Jim,"  said  Billy.  "The  way  he  told  you 
where  you  might  get  off  was  worth  coming  miles  to  see." 

"Wish  I  might  have  been  there,"  sighed  Violet.  "It  isn't 
fair.  When  there's  any  fun  I  have  to  stay  at  home  because 
I'm  a  girl.  It's  a  shame.  At  any  other  time  everybody  treats 
me  as  if  I  were  a  boy.  Judith  never  says:  'Bring  the  boys 


ROBIN'S   NOT   HERE  269 

and  Violet/  She  just  says:  'Bring  the  boys/  Dad,  I'm  go 
ing  to  ask  Mr.  Rainboldt  to  bully  you  again,  just  for  me — a 
private  rehearsal." 

"That  young  man  will  go  far.  He  can  have  the  keys  of  San 
Clemente  any  time  he  wants  them."  J.  C.  paused  for  a 
twinkly  smile.  "But,  even  when  he  was  twisting  me  up  into 
hard  knots,  he  restrained  himself:  I  noticed  that.  He  made 
reservations.  He  showed  a  consideration  for  me,  a  respect 
fulness,  quite  uncalled  for  by  the  circumstances — or  so  it 
seems  to  me.  Confidentially,  I  think  he  had  something  on 
his  mind;  some  private  designs — what?  Oh,  Dowlin;  Breen 
wants  to  see  you  at  the  gate.  I  nearly  forgot  to  tell  you." 

"But  what  private  designs  could  Dickie  have?"  inquired 
Billy,  as  Dowlin  went  out.  "What  could  he  want?"  His 
speculative  eye,  in  its  wanderings,  carefully  avoided  Miss 
Elliott. 

"Don't  know.  But  if  he  wants  it,  he'll  get  it,"  said  J.  C. 
genially.  "No  use  talking,  some  of  these  cowboys  are  grown 
men.  They  have  to  think  for  themselves,  and  think  quick, 
in  that  business.  No  time  to  send  for  experts.  The  bulk 
of  the  cowmen,  like  the  bulk  of  any  class  of  men,  are  only 
so-so,  aside  from  their  work;  but  when  you  get  a  really  good 
cowman,  you've  got  something!" 

Judith  rose  and  made  a  deep  curtsy. 

"Thank  you,  uncle.  You  are  all  witnesses  to  that,"  she 
said,  impervious  to  banter  and  gibe.  She  had  never  been  more 
radiant;  she  danced  across  the  room  now,  light-spinning,  gos 
samer;  she  turned  at  the  window  and  sang,  gay,  defiant,  wist 
ful,  laughing: 

"What's  this  dull  town  to  me? 

Robin's  not  here: 
He  whom  I  wished  to  see, 

Wished  for  to  hear. 
What,  when  the  ball  was  o'er, 
What  made  my  heart  so  sore? 
Oh,  it  was  parting  with 

Robin  Adair!" 

Violet  made  no  remonstrance,  but  she  favored  Judith  witK 


270  WEST    IS    WEST 

a  prim  and  decorous  glance,  to  which  Miss  Elliott  responded 
with  a  rebellious  little  moue. 

"What  was  that  splendid  quotation  you  gave  us  the  other 
day,  Pierre?  The  one  you  said  applied  so  well  to  the  cowmen 
who  kept  right  on  with  their  cowman-ing  while  civilization 
closed  in  on  'em  ?" 

"Oh,  that!    Let's  see,  howrd  it  go?'    Oh,  yes: 

"Sowed  in  a  dream  amid  the  harvesting." 

"By  George,  it's  true.  Civilization  is  their  harvesting,  poor 
old  chaps !  Some  one  has  said  that  the  history  of  Europe  is 
written  in  one  line:  'England  is  an  island.'  And  the  history  of 
America  is  the  story  of  the  pioneer.  .  .  .  We  forget  that, 
sometimes." 

"What's  keeping  Ed?"  said  Violet  rising.  "Let's  go  out, 
on  the  porch.  I  like  that  Mr.  Breen.  And  the  moonlight  is 
glorious." 

"Where's  Breen,  Dowlin?"  said  J.  C.,  on  the  porch. 

"Gone." 

"Anything  wrong,  old  man?"  asked  Pierre,  quick  to  notice 
Dowlin's  troubled  face. 

"Ed's  grievin'  over  the  opportunity  he  missed  when  he  made 
his  little  presentation  speech  to  Clem  Gray,"  mocked  Billy. 
"It  goes  like  this,  Dowlin:  'Pray  accept  this  humble  offering 
as  a  slight  token  of  our  esteem  and  respect' — something  like 
that." 

The  air  was  velvet.  A  cool,  fresh,  faint  breeze  rustled  by 
and  whispered  secrets. 

"Bully  moon!"  grunted  J.  C.    "Wonderful  night!" 

"Wonderful!"  echoed  Judith. 

"Look  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold!" 

She  stretched  out  her  hands  to  the  night;  her  young  voice 
rang  out,  glad  and  high,  clear,  strong  and  jubilant: 

"In  such  a  night  as  thisf 
When  the  soft  wind  did  gently  kiss  the  trees 


ROBIN'S    NOT    HERE  271 

'And  they  did  make  no  noise;  on  such  a  night, 
Troilus,  methinks,  mounted  the  Trojan  wall 
And  sigh'd  his  soul  toward  the  Grecian  tents, 
Where  Cressid  lay  that  night." 

"Judith,  you  madcap !"  said  Violet. 

"Clean  bewitched,  poor  child/'  groaned  Billy. 

Judith's  eyes  sparkled  joyous  mischief  and  defiance;  she 
dropped  one  hand  and  waved  the  other  slowly,  beckoning, 
above  her  uplifted  face: 

"On  such  a  night 

Stood  Dido  with  a  willow  in  her  hand 
Upon  the  wild  sea  banks,  and  waft  her  love 
To  come  again  to  Carthage." 

"I  can't  stand  this.  The  girl  is  fey!"  whispered  Dowlin 
to  himself.  Then  he  raised  his  voice.  "Judith!  Here  a 
minute,  won't  you  ?" 

He  stepped  into  the  hallway;  Judith  joined  him. 

"Well?"  she  said  cheerfully. 

Dowlin  paused,  uncertain.  Then  he  blurted  out  his  word. 
"He's  going  away — Rainboldt.  For  keeps." 

"Oh!"  said  Judith. 

"In  the  morning.    Breen  came  to  tell  me." 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Judith,  bracing  her  small  mouth  to  piteous 
bravery.  "Come  to  the  piano,  Ed.  I'll  play  and  you  sing. 
I — I  don't  want  to  go  back  on  the  porch." 

"You  want  us  to  go  home,  Judith?  I'll  herd  'em  away  for 
you,  after  a  bit.  I'll  do  a  bluff  at  a  song  or  two  first.  Then 
I'll  hustle  'em  out." 

"You're  a  good  friend,  Ed," 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

MONEY   TALKS 

DICK  tossed  restlessly  upon  his  narrow  bunk.  To-morrow 
he  would  pass  from  Judith  Elliott's  life  forever.  He  re 
counted  the  excellent  and  unanswerable  reasons  why  it  must 
be  so.  It  was  preposterous  that  he  had  dared  to  raise  his 
eyes  to  her — serene,  high,  unattainable.  What  had  he  to  offer 
her?  Nothing.  A  cowboy,  uncouth,  unlettered,  unmannered! 
Folly  and  madness! 

Having  thus  firmly  established  that  she  was  above  and 
apart  from  him,  he  began  again.  Over  and  over  he  toiled  at 
his  endless,  hopeless  task.  Never  to  see  her  again,  never  to 
hear  her  voice !  That  she  should  forget  him,  that  he  should 
be  to  her,  at  best,  a  misty  detail  in  a  half-forgotten  spring 
time,  he  could  bear  that.  But — never  to  see  her  again ! 

He  rose  at  last,  dressed,  and  went  out  into  the  night.  A 
few  clouds  were  in  the  sky,  and  a  chill,  keening  wind  wailed 
sadly  through  the  trees.  The  high  cold  stars,  unchanged,  un 
changing,  looked  calmly  down  upon  him  from  immeasurable 
heights ;  the  moon's  pitiless  light  fell  on  the  drear  and  lonely 
hills,  showing  their  barrenness  and  savage  desolation  with 
cruel  distinctness. 

He  turned  up  the  trail  to  the  San  Clemente  Gap. 

There  was  no  slightest  glance  or  tone  of  hers  that  he  did 
not  remember  now.  The  warm  mystery  of  her  wistful  face 
rose  before  him,  thrilled  him,  lured  him  on.  How  fair  she 
was,  how  sweet  and  good  and  true.  She  must  not  know,  she 
must  never  dream.  It  would  only  grieve  her. 

He  paused  at  the  last  little  hill  below  San  Clemente  Pass. 
There,  in  the  crest  above  him,  she  had  given  him  the  dollar. 
Was  that  a  lifetime  ago?  And  he  had  thrown  it  away — fool 

272 


MONEY   TALKS  273 

that  he  was — instead  of  explaining  and  making  it  easier  for 
her.  He  would  find  that  coin  now  and  keep  it — always.  That 
was  the  tree,  that  bush-topped  cedar,  beyond  the  second  little 
gully 

What  was  that — white — moving? 

The  neighbor  stars  bent  low  to  kiss  the  hills;  the  dear  old 
hills,  never  again  to  be  remembered  apart  from  youth  and 
hope  and  love.  For  it  was  Judith,  weeping,  sobbing,  search 
ing 

The  kindly,  wise  old  moon  hid  then  behind  a  cloud.  So 
they  did  not  find  the  dollar. 


OVER  ON  THE  MALIBU 

CHAPTER  XXXVII 

THE    ENCHANTED   VALLEY 

REELING,  the  white  wrack  of  stars  fled  down  the  west,  save 
where  a  grim  rear-guard,  rock-stubborn  in  the  rout,  still  held 
the  dawn  at  bay. 

In  the  Hueco  stage,  L.  Orrin  Sewall,  cramped  and  stiff 
ened  from  the  long  night  ride,  glanced  enviously  at  his  one 
fellow  passenger,  now  sleeping  peacefully  on  the  improptu 
berth — happily  combined  of  seat,  baggage,  lap-robe,  and  mail 
sack — which  Sewall  had  found  impossible.  Thereon,  as  to 
the  manner  born,  Emil  James  curled  luxuriously,  oblivious  of 
whip-crack,  lurch  and  jolting  wheel. 

Weird,  ghostly,  the  giant  candelabra  of  the  saguarro  shaped 
forth  from  the  shadows  ahead,  bore  down  upon  them,  slipped 
by  and  faded  back  to  dimness  in  the  rear. 

As  it  grew  lighter,  Sewall  saw  that  they  were  plunging 
against  an  enormous  mass  of  mountain,  blue-black,  huge,  for 
bidding.  The  black  became  gray — brown — pink — but  Sewall 
looked  vainly  for  gap  or  gateway  in  the  frowning  wall.  He 
was  about  to  question  the  silent  driver,  when  Emil  rolled 
over  and  sat  up. 

"Ugh-h!  I  dreamed  I  was  asleep!"  he  said  blinking  and 
stretching.  "Hello!  here  we  are!  Say,  you'd  hate  to  make 
that  drive  by  daylight." 

Sewall  turned.  The  grouped  windmills  of  La  Mancha,  the 
last  stage-station,  were  already  far  below  them,  so  clearly  out 
lined  as  to  seem  almost  at  hand,  yet  shrunken  to  toy  dimen 
sions.  Tiny  but  distinct,  a  meager  feather  of  smoke  curled 
lazily  above  the  cook-house. 

The  stage-road,  white  and  straight,  dimmed  to  a  line  a 

274 


THE   ENCHANTED   VALLEY     275 

speck — nothing.  Beyond  the  overwhelming  desert,  Pinetop 
and  La  Fantasia  loomed  monstrous  and  unbelievable.  The 
early  camp-fire  of  San  Clemente  shone  redly,  palpitant,  firefly 
sparks  through  the  faint  thin  mists  of  dawn. 

"There's  where  we  started  from — those  fires  yonder,"  said 
Emil,  pointing.  "Eighty  consecutive  miles  from  here,  those 
fires  are.  Don't  look  it,  do  they?" 

They  wheeled  swiftly  up  the  steady  slope  of  foot-hill,  over 
a  road  of  decomposed  granite,  yellow  and  red  and  golden 
warm,  picked  with  white  gleam  of  crystal  and  quartz,  so 
beaten  and  packed  that  it  was  resonant  under  the  scamper 
ing,  rhythmical  feet.  Scurry  of  rabbit,  whir  of  startled  quail, 
perfume  of  blossomed  mesquite;  the  ranked  saguarro,  fluted 
and  gray-green  now  to  the  clearer  light.  To  right,  to  left, 
down  the  spinning  brown  isles  of  pungent  tar  brush,  there 
was  flaunting  of  riotous  scarlet,  flash  of  crimson  flame — the 
flower  of  the  cactus. 

Snuffing  cheerfully  in  the  cool  freshness,  the  four  ponies 
swung  gaily  around  the  long  sinuous  curves,  eluding  ridge  or 
arroyo,  ever  sacrificing  distance  to  grade. 

And  now  they  were  at  the  very  base  of  the  Hueco's  mighty, 
prodigious,  buttressed  bulk.  The  hazy  crest  formed  a  battle 
ment  frowning  and  sheer,  with  upshoot  of  granite  needle  and 
spur,  already  flushing  to  a  delicate  pink  in  the  upper  sun 
rise. 

"So  that's  the  Hoo-ee-co  mountain,  is  it?"  asked  Sewall. 

Emil  sat  up,  a  malicious  light  in  his  eye.  All  the  long 
road  from  San  Clemente  to  sleepy-time  his  companion  had 
enlightened  the  aboriginal  mind  with  precisely  worded,  cock 
sure  information — more  especially  crushing  current  political 
heresies  under  the  weight  of  expert  authority.  In  labeled 
pigeon-holes  of  Sewall's  neat  and  orderly  mind  were  filled 
phonographically  accurate  records  of  the  wisdoms  promul 
gated  by  Prof.  J.  Langdon  Leighton,  of  Pharos  University; 
endorsed  by  men  whose  names  were  synonyms  of  success,  and 
full  of  sonorous  words  as  blessed  as  Mesopotamia.  Emil  had 
been  so  entranced  with  some  of  the  more  poetical  terms  that 
he  had  privately  added  them  to  his  own  vocabulary;  rolling 
them  in  silent  anticipation  as  sweet  morsels  under  his  tongue. 
"Empiric,"  "demagogue,"  and  "charlatan" — always  delivered 


276  WEST    IS    WEST 

by  Sewall  in  accents  of  virulent  and  scornful  superiority — 
especially  appealed  to  Emil  as  words  useful  to  him  in  his 
vocation. 

"Hoo-ee-co?"  he  echoed,  "No  siree!  H-u-e-c-o.  You  pro 
nounce  it  'whaco,'  and  it  means  'hollow/  like  a  tree." 

"Why  do  you  call  it  that?"  continued  Sewall.  "And  where's 
the  town?" 

Emil  looked  puzzled.  "Why — why,  we  call  it  that — well,, 
partly  because  that's  its  name,  partly  because  the  mountain 
is  a  hollow  mountain.  And  the  town's  in  the  hollow  basin 
inside,  like  a  saucer." 

"Someway,"  said  Sewall,  disappointed,  "I'd  got  the  im 
pression  that  the  town — what's  its  name — Son  Todos? — that 
Son  Todos  was  quite  a  place." 

"Oh,  well — like  a  butter-bowl,  then,"  said  Emil,  generously. 
"Saucer-shaped,  I  meant,  not  saucer-sized.  Strictly  speak 
ing,  there  ain't  no  town.  Just  a  four-story  settlement,  like. 
Farms  in  the  valley,  cows  and  horses  on  the  hillsides,  mines 
underground,  and  goats  in  the  upper  air.  Son  Todos,  where 
we  stop — stage-station,  post-office,  store,  everything  else — was 
the  first  ranch,  and  the  valley  took  the  name." 

"But  why  San  Todos?" 

"What  d'ye  want  us  to  call  it?"  said  Emil,  petulantly. 
"'South  West  New  J.  Q.  "Adamsburg?'  'New  Canterbury?' 
'Versailles  Center?'  'Tyre  and  Sidon?'  'Son  Todos'  means 
'That's  All.'  Because — well,  just  because  that's  all.  You 
can't  go  no  further." 

"What  queer  names  you  have  in  this  country,"  meditated 
Sewall. 

"You  from  Schenectady,  too?"  queried  Emil,  tartly. 

"Schenectady ?  Oh,  no;  I'm  from  Poughkeepsie,"  said 
Sewall  in  all  simplicity. 

The  driver  choked.  "This  here  dust  all  the  time  is  mighty 
bad  for  my  throat,"  he  explained  his  first  and  last  contribu 
tion  to  the  council. 

A  pipe-line,  straddling  on  crazy  stilts,  rambled  drunkenly 
down  the  tangled  hillside  to  a  string  of  watering  troughs, 
where  a  few  cattle  were  straggling  in.  In  the  overhanging, 
broken  precipice  ahead,  Sewall  now  became  aware  of  a  shal 
low  fissure  set  obliquely  to  the  mountain's  trend.  Suddenly 


THE    ENCHANTED   VALLEY     277 

it  became  an  appalling  chasm,  deep  hewn  by  the  stupendous 
chisels  of  fire  and  frost  and  flood.  Into  this  they  plunged 
blindly  though  it  apparently  ended  in  a  hopeless  "box"  a 
little  higher  up. 

"Surely  there  is  some  mistake!"  ejaculated  the  Easterner. 
"We  can  never  get  up  there !" 

"Yes  we  can.  There's  an  escalator.  You'll  see !"  said  Emil 
reassuringly. 

At  the  last  moment,  rounding  a  turmoil  of  broken  and 
splintered  rock,  they  came  to  an  angled  cleft,  narrow,  por 
tentous,  dark;  widening  to  a  wild  canon,  scarred  and  gashed 
and  torn,  its  cliffs  carven  grotesquely  to  dragon  and  gnome 
and  leering  face,  spiteful,  haggard,  importunate,  sinister. 
Turning,  twisting,  by  boulder  and  gully  and  scar  and  cairn, 
flood-torn  wash,  abrupt  steeps,  hog-back,  with  downward 
plunge  and  squeal  of  protesting  brakes,  they  held  their  doubt 
ful  way.  The  solid  rock  opened  magically  before  them,* 
closed  irrevocably  behind. 

"We  call  this  Zig-Zag,"  volunteered  Emil.  "A— eh— a 
whim  of  ours,"  he  added,  diffidently. 

Sewall  actually  smiled.     "It  is  crooked,"  he  admitted. 

"Yes.  Good  thing,  too.  No  snakes  in  the  valley.  Break 
their  backs  trying  to  get  through." 

Another  turn,  followed  by  a  long  steep  pitch  up  a  but 
tressed  shoulder:  a  black  lettered  boulder  flashed  them  iron 
ical  warning: 

DANGER ! 
SLOW  DOWN  TO   EIGHT   MILES  AN   HOUR! 

They  came  to  the  top  in  a  breathless  scramble,  bursting 
through  that  unquiet  gateway,  that  shuddering  confusion  of 
hobgoblin  nightmare,  into  a  waiting,  waking,  sunlit  world  be 
yond. 

So  beautiful  it  was,  so  peaceful  and  sheltered,  so  sharp 
the  contrast  with  the  savage  grandeur  of  the  Pass,  that  Sewall 
involuntarily  broke  into  an  exclamation  of  delight.  He  quoted 
under  his  breath: 

"The  island  valley  of  'Avilion; 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rainf  or  any  snow, 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly/' 


278  WEST    IS    WEST 

The  air  was  fragrant,  balmy,  aquiver  with  bird-song  and 
questing  bee.  The  saucer  slopes,  though  boulder  strewn,  were 
smooth  and  symetrical  in  contour,  thin-parked  with  cedar 
and  live  oak  and  dotted  with  strange  flowers.  Cattle  and 
horses  grazed  leisurely,  raising  their  heads  to  regard  the  in 
truders  with  mild  contemplation.  Bands  of  snow-white  An 
gora  goats,  escorted  by  knowing  collies,  were  on  their  brows 
ing  way  to  the  herbs  and  shrubs  of  the  higher  reaches.  Above 
the  winding  road  they  could  see  the  frequent  scar  of  dump 
or  tunnel  and  rock  huts  clinging  to  the  hillsiaes. 

The  flat  floor  of  the  saucer  was  a  sweeping  field  of  shaded 
emerald,  unbroken  save  for  winding  irrigating  ditches  and 
dividing  fences,  and  twice  grateful  after  the  pale  desert. 
There  were  no  buildings  on  the  floor;  the  level  land,  which 
alone  could  be  cultivated  to  advantage,  was  too  valuable. 

On  the  lower  hill,  barely  above  the  floor,  the  road  circled 
around  this  farm  land.  Just  above  it,  wherever  a  tiny  rill 
ran  sparkling  down  the  mountain,  were  nestled  homes  of 
flat-roofed  adobe  or  stone,  deep  set  in  orchards,  vineyards 
and  gardens.  For  this,  the  hill  was  terraced  with  much  toil 
to  a  sort  of  giant  stairway,  blasted  from  a  rocky  slope.  The 
lower  side  of  each  step  was  walled  with  the  boulders,  filled 
in  behind  with  small  rocks  and  debris,  laboriously  covered 
with  soil  and  leveled  for  irrigation;  always  with  a  "tank"  on 
the  top  for  the  hoarding  of  water. 

"I  have  never  seen  a  fairer  spot,"  said  Sewall,  drawing  a 
long  breath.  "But  I  suppose,  like  every  other  place,  it  has 
its  drawbacks?" 

"It  has,"  assented  Emil,  decidedly.  "Real  things — beef, 
milk,  eggs,  grain,  fruit — they  have  the  best  and  to  spare. 
The  mines  are  good,  too — but  low  grade  ore  and  the  long 
haul  to  the  smelter — see?  Even  their  beef-herds  can't  be 
driven  across  the  desert  in  first-class  shape.  Too  far  between 
water-holes.  They  get  the  highest  market-price  for  what 
they  use,  but  the  surplus — well,  freight  and  shrinkage  wipes 
out  the  profit.  You  just  merely  get  day  wages  for  your  trip. 
Then  you  blow  in  the  day  wages  seeing  El  Paso.  That's 
about  right. 

"So  there's  no  money.  They're  learning,  though.  They're 
raising  their  own  pork  now,  which  isn't  considered  a  proper 


THE    ENCHANTED   VALLEY     279 

thing  for  a  cowman  to  do.  They  make  ropes  out  of  colts' 
tails  and  rawhide,  mold  their  own  candles,  and  let  the  women 
wash  with  amole  to  save  buying  soap.  But  there's  no  ready 
money.  Everything's  bought  on  time.  One  week  after  steer- 
sale  the  money's  all  back  in  Kansas  City.  Exports:  ore, 
cattle,  mohair,  and  raw  material  for  freshmen.  Imports: 
everything  else.  But  they'd  be  the  happiest  genie  on  earth 
only  for  one  thing." 

"What's  that?"  asked  the  tourist,  much  interested. 
"Debt." 

"Whom  do  they  owe?" 

"Each  other,"  said  Emil,  with  an  explanatory  wiggle  of 
his  fingers.  "Always  buying  and  trading — no  cash.  It  spoils 
their  peace  of  mind.  And  here  we  are." 

Where  the  largest  rivulet  tinkled  bell-Uke  over  mimic  cas 
cades  to  a  natural  shelf,  stood  a  cottonwood  grove.  In  its 
dense,  impenetrable  shade  the  stage  drew  up  before  the  low 
rambling  building  of  Son  Todos — post-office,  store,  hotel,  liv 
ery  stable,  blacksmith  shop.  Freight  depot  it  was,  too,  judg 
ing  from  the  evidence  of  the  huge-wheeled  wagons  rigged 
with  chains  and  stretchers  for  twenty-horse  "jerk  line"  teams; 
each  with  another  wagon,  smaller  indeed,  but  still  enormous, 
trailed  behind.  A  chuck-box,  in  the  trail  wagons,  replaced 
the  usual  end-gate;  water  barrels  were  swung  on  platforms 
built  at  either  side,  just  forward  of  the  rear  wheels. 

"You  see,"  explained  Emil,  as  they  sat  down  to  breakfast 
al  fresco,  with  an  orchestra  of  far-off  mocking  birds  and  the 
cheerful  undertone  of  broken  waters,  "You  see,  it's  no  trouble 
to  produce  here,  but  it's  a  long,  long  ways  to  the  consumer. 
If  you  do  your  own  hauling — well,  you  likely  aint  got  more 
than  one  little  muzzle-loading,  four-horse  rig.  You  go  down 
full  of  freight,  come  back  mebbe  empty  and  mebbe  full  of 
booze.  Got  your  choice  of  bad  or  worse.  Whitly  now,  he's 
got  five  or  six  big  freight  outfits  like  them  yonder.  He  does 
the  freighting  as  cheap  as  the  boys  could  do  it  themselves. 
But  still  he  makes  money  on  it,  for  he  freights,  as  you  may 
say,  by  the  wholesale,  and  gets  retail  rates,  d'ye  see?  And 
he  gets  his  own  stuff  brought  back  for  nothing.  Keeps  the 
teams  on  the  road  all  the  time.  No  loss  for  idle  plant." 
"He  ought  to  get  rich,"  said  Sewall. 


280  WEST    IS   WEST 

"Well,  yes.  He  is  doing  well — buying  some  city  property 
in  El  Paso.  But  as  for  actual  cash — well,  you  see,  he  car 
ries  'em  all  over  and  that  takes  a  lot  of  money." 

"Carries  them  over?     I  don't  understand." 

"He  sells  us  everything  we  need — grub,  clothes,  barbed- 
wire,  saddles,  everything — on  a  year's  time,"  explained  Emil. 
"Sells  them,  I  mean;  I  don't  live  here  myself.  Just  come 
over  once  or  twice  in  a  while  to  get  rested.  So  they  bring 
their  produce — ore,  mohair,  grain  and  baled  alfalfa — and 
turn  it  in  on  account.  He  don't  buy  it,  'cause  naturally, 
mail  only  coming  in  once  a  week,  he  can't  keep  track  of 
prices.  He  just  credits  'em  with  the  quantity,  sells  it  for 
them  the  best  he  can,  and  charges  a  fair  freight.  If  there's 
anything  over,  he  pays  their  taxes  for  'em,  or  may-be-so 
sends  money  for  their  kids  off  at  school,  as  the  case  might  be. 

"Yes — Whitly  is  well  fixed,  all  right.  They  don't  grudge 
it  to  him.  He  keeps  a  look-out  for  good  things.  If  there's 
a  boy  that  ought  to  go  to  college  or  a  young  woman  of  energy 
and  enterprise  wanting  to  try  the  city — why,  Whitly  finds 
'em  a  chance.  But  as  for  cash,  he  spends  it  fixin'  up  things ; 
improvements,  you  know — a  little  old  flour  mill  here,  a  sorg 
hum  mill  there — something  to  help  'em  all.  And  he  coughs 
up  surreptitious  for  valley-folks  out  in  the  said  sad  world, 
that's  sick  or  in  trouble.  There  ain't  many  of  'em." 

Sewall  nodded.  "I  can  understand  that,"  he  said.  "Pris 
oners  of  content." 

"So  while  the  old  man  handles  lots  of  coin,  he  don't  keep 
it  in  stock,"  continued  Emil.  "Any  margin  that  might  be 
comin*  to  the  valley  he  brings  back  in  the  shape  of  canned 
progress — the  latest  thing  in  sewing  machines,  phonographs, 
and  the  like.  He's  comfortable — same  as  the  rest — and  he 
saves  them  the  trouble  of  thinking.  But  about  all  he  gets 
out  of  it  is  the  fun  of  being  boss. 

"Well,  so  long,  I  am  going  up  to  see  a  friend.  Folks'!! 
drop  in  bimeby  after  their  mail.  Be  good!" 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

WIZARD   OF   FINANCE 

"No/'  said  Emil,  carelessly,  an  hour  later,  answering  Cal 
Rucker's  question  as  to  the  newcomer,  "not  a  bad  sort  of 
fellow.  He'll  maybe  want  to  measure  the  Huecos  with  his 
little  foot-rule  and  reduce  'em  to  grains  Troy — but  there's 
no  harm  in  him." 

Here  he  was  interrupted.  George,  brother  to  Cal,  rode 
into  the  yard,  coming  directly  to  the  "gallery"  of  Cal's  bach 
elor  home,  and  to  the  point. 

"Hulloo,  Cal!  Howdy,  Mr.  James.  Say,  Cal — you  got 
any  money?" 

Cal  turned  his  pockets  wrong-side  out,  made  hopeful  search 
of  his  hat,  and  shook  his  head  with  decision. 

"Too  bad,"  said  George.  "I  owe  Tom  Hendricks  on  them 
milk-cows,  and  he  needs  it.  I  allowed  I  could  borrow  it  off 
Whitly,  but  he  just  blew  his  roll  for  a  threshing-machine. 
Told  me  he  hadn't  cash  to  give  Tom  Garrett  an  advance  for 
boring  a  well  over  the  Divide.  I've  got  a  good  lot  comin' 
from  Miss  Hagan's  boardin'-house  at  the  Mormon  mine  for 
milk,  butter,  eggs,  and  garden  truck.  But  'course  she  can't 
pay  till  the  boarders  pay,  and  they  can't  pay  till  Jimmy 
Dodds  gets  returns  from  his  last  shipment. 

"So  Hendricks  '11  nicely  have  to  wait,"  interrupted  Cal, 
cheerfully  dismissing  the  subject  as  trivial.  "Come  along, 
you  two,  and  see  my  pigs.'* 

They  stirred  up  the  sleeping  beauties — one  white  and  one 
spotted. 

"Now,  them's  sure  nice  hawgs,"  said  George  admiringly. 
"Say,  Cal,  give  you  that  gun  you  WPS  wantin'  for  'em." 

I'll  give  you  one  of  'em  for  it,"  was  the  counter  offer. 

281 


282  WEST    IS    WEST 

"No,  you  wont.  Tell  you  what  I  will  do,  tftough,"  George 
proposed.  "You've  got  to  be  gone  to  the  roundups.  Let  me 
fat  'em  on  shares.  I  got  plenty  of  milk  and  corn  and  I  stay 
to  home  steady." 

"All  right,"  said  Cal,  nothing  loth.     "Keep  'em  till  December 
first  for  half?" 

"Help  me  start  'em!"  said  George. 

After  some  jockeying,  the  pigs  went  merrily  frisking  on 
their  way.  Emil  and  his  host  were  returning  when  George 
came  back. 

"Hey,  buddie!  'Spose  one  of  them  hawgs  die?  How  about 
that?  Do  we  whack  on  the  other  one?" 

"Nary  whack.  I  was  always  luckier  than  you  was,"  re 
turned  Cal,  confidently.  ("George's  married!"  he  added  in 
acommiserating,  aside  to  his  guest.)  "White  one's  mine, 
spotted  one's  yours,  for  better  or  worse." 

"That's  fair.  It's  understood  then — the  white  one's  yourn, 
and  Spot's  mine?" 

"Sure  thing!"  Cal  agreed. 

George  rode  a  few  steps  and  turned  back  again,  struck 
with  a  sudden  thought. 

"Tell  you  what,  Cal — I'll  give  you  the  gun  for  your  white 

P^" 

He  held  out  the  gun,  tempting  in  its  silver  and  pearl, 
Cal's  eyes  twinkled  covetously. 

"Belt  and  all?"  he  queried,  shrewdly. 

"Belt  and  all?" 

"I'll  go  you  once." 

George  promptly  unbuckled  the  belt  and  handed  it  over. 
Then  Emil  spoke  for  the  first  time. 

"Run  along  now,  Callie  boy,  and  shoot  tin  cans.  I  want  to 
make  a  little  talk  with  your  brother." 

When  Cal  was  on  his  way,  Emil  twisted  his  hands  in  the 
saddle-strings  and  said  diffidently: 

"I  didn't  want  to  be  too  forward,  Mr.  Rucker — not  know 
ing  you  very  well,  but — well,  your  brother's  an  old  friend 
of  mine,  and  this  is  no  use  to  me  just  now.  If  it'll  help  you 
any,  you're  welcome.  Been  there  myself."  He  held  out  a 
crumpled  and  wadded  hundred  dollar  bill. 

George  spread  it  out,  regarding  him  gravely. 


WIZARD    OF    FINANCE  283 

"Why,  this  is  right  clever  of  you,  Mr.  James,  if  you're  sure 
you  can  spare  it?" 

Emil  waved  his  hand. 

"All  right,  then,  and  thank  you  kindly.  We'll  go  back 
and  have  Cal  stand  good  for  this,  if  you'd  rather.  Good  old 
noodle,  Cal,"  said  George,  with  fraternal  indulgence.  "Lucky 
chap !" 

Emil  looked  back. 

Lucky  Cal  stood  half-turned  toward  them,  scratching  his 
head,  glancing  alternately  at  his  brother  and  at  the  six- 
shooter  on  his  open  palm,  his  whole  attitude  expressive  of 
dawning  distrust. 

"I  guess  that  wont  be  necessary,"  drawled  Emil,  tone  and 
face  of  preternatural  gravity.  "I  have  a  good  deal  of  confi 
dence  in  your  commercial  ability,  Mr.  Rucker." 

"Thank  you  again,  then.  I'll  do  as  much  for  some  other 
fellow.  See  them  blame  pigs  hike,  will  you?  Adios!" 

"Me  for  a  nap,"  announced  Emil,  as  he  came  up  the  path. 

Cal  sat  on  the  gallery,  a  puzzled  look  on  his  face,  regard 
ing  the  six-shooter  with  marked  disfavor. 

"Good  gun,  Cal?"  asked  Emil,  with  lifted  brows. 

Cal  half  raised  the  gun  and  gazed  solicitously  after  his 
departing  brother. 

"I've  a  blame  good  mind  to  see!"  he  said  earnestly. 

When  Emil  awoke  in  the  late  afternoon,  his  host  was  not 
visible.  So  Emil  made  his  way  to  San  Todos,  finding  there 
a  lively  crowd  of  old  acquaintances.  But  Sewall  adroitly 
appropriated  him  and  drew  him  apart.  He  had  changed 
notably  in  twenty-four  hours,  his  slightly  patronizing  atti 
tude  was  abandoned  for  one  of  enthusiasm,  informality,  and 
eager  inquiry. 

"This  is  the  greatest  place  I  ever  saw,"  he  said.  "I  want 
you  to  explain  a  number  of  things  to  me.  In  the  first  place, 
how  do  you  reconcile  Mr.  Whitly's  paternal  guidance  with 
his  saloon-keeping?" 

"That's  easy/'  returned  Emil.  "He  does  that  to  hold  the 
boys  down.  He  hates  whisky  some,  but  drunkenness  a  good 
deal  more.  So  long  as  he  keeps  a  saloon,  d'ye  see,  no  one 
else  is  going  to — not  in  this  valley.  And  when  a  man  you 


284  WEST    IS    WEST 

like,  a  man  that's  done  you  favors,  advises  you  to  taper  off — 
especially  if  you  owe  him  a  good  deal  of  money  and  intend 
to  owe  him  more — why  you're  apt  to  heed  as  well  as  hear. 
Besides  that,  you  know  he  won't  let  you  have  another  drop 
anyhow." 

"That's  clear  enough/'  said  Sewall.  "But,  see  here,"  he 
added  suspiciously,  "you  mustn't  play  any  more  tricks  on 
travelers." 

"Tricks  ?" 

"Oh,  you're  innocent,  aren't  you?  You  told  me  these  peo 
ple  have  no  money.  Why,  they've  got  it  to  burn!  Buying, 
selling,  paying  debts,  trading  and  giving  boot,  and  always 
handing  over  the  cash." 

Emil  recalled  the  solemn  political  and  financial  maxims 
laid  down  by  his  fellow  traveler  on  the  previous  night,  but 
refrained  from  comment. 

"Oh,  well !"  he  said  with  lightsome  gesture,  "I  told  you 
they  had  the  real  thing — land,  stock,  produce.  If  there's 
more  money  in  circulation  than  there  used  to  be,  they're  not 
really  any  better  off  than  they  were  before — they  just  seem 
to  be." 

Sewall  chuckled. 

"Oh,  you  don't  fool  me  any  more  with  your  whimsicalities. 
Your  pretended  opinions  are  only  a  part  of  the  characteristic 
quiet  fun  that  seems  to  prevail  here — like  the  'slow  down' 
sign  at  the  pass.  Oh,  I  like  it  here!  The  people  are  the 
j oiliest,  friendliest,  best-natured  set  I've  ever  met!  No  blues 
or  hard-luck  stories  here. 

"I  don't  mind  telling  you,  in  confidence,  that  I  came  here 
to  look  into  Mr.  James  Dodd's  coppermining  proposition. 
I'll  own  that  you  fooled  me  with  your  humorous  account  of 
financial  conditions,  and  that  I  had  formed  an  unfavorable 
opinion  of  the  business  ability  and  energy  of  these  people. 
But  when  I  see  them,  everyone  with  elastic  step,  sparkling 
eye,  high  spirits — everyone,  even  Mr.  Dodd's  miners,  with  the 
confident  assurred  air  of  men  on  the  winning  side — it's  pre 
possessing,  I  tell  you.  Of  course,  one  cannot  allow  such 
things  to  influence  one's  business  judgment,  but  I  must  admit 
that  their  jaunty,  care-free  bearing  has  impressed  me,  and 
that  I  rather  expect  to  find  the  mine  a  good  thing." 


WIZARD   OF   FINANCE  285 

"Oh,  it's  a  good  mine,  all  right,  all  right/'  murmured  Emil. 

"Be  the  mine  what  it  may/'  declared  the  Easterner,  bub 
bling  with  enthusiasm,  "it's  a  great  country!  I  intend  to 
secure  a  holding  here — shooting-box,  summer-house,  that  sort 
of  thing — and  bring  out  my  nervously  prostrated  friends  to 
get  back  into  tune  with  life." 

"Let  me  make  you  acquainted  with  some  of  the  boys,"  said 
Emil. 

So  presently  they  were  the  center  of  an  animated  group 
under  the  trees.  Cal  and  George  were  among  the  number. 
When  most  of  the  male  population  were  gathered  to  enter 
tain  Sewall,  George  edged  Emil  to  one  side.  He  was  highly 
elated. 

"There's  been  the  blamedest  goin's-on  you  ever  heard  of," 
he  confided.  "You  see,  that  there  bill  of  yours  was  about 
the  first  loose  money  around  here  for  quite  some  time.  Our 
credit's  good;  we  all  know  each  other.  We'll  pay  all  right, 
sometime.  We'd  rather  owe  a  man  always  than  go  back  on 
a  debt.  But  somehow  a  good  debt  ain't  the  same  thing  as 
good  coin.  I  reckon  every  fellow  around  here  either  owed 
debts  he  hated  not  payin',  or  else  there  was  something  he'd 
been  a-wantin'  bad  for  a  long  time.  Cash  made  quick 
tradin'.  You  never  saw  such  circulatin'  since  you  was  rolled 
down  hill  in  a  barrel,  never." 

"I  tried  to  overtake  a  lie,  once,"  suggested  Emil,  thought 
fully.  "I  think  I  understand." 

"That's  the  way  this  was.  I  paid  Hendricks.  He  handed 
it  over  to  Nate  Smith  for  four  ponies  he'd  bought.  Nate 
turned  it  in  on  his  store  bill.  Whitly  advanced  it  to  Tommy 
Garrett  on  the  well-borin' ;  and  Tom  paid  it  to  his  fireman. 
He'd  been  lettin'  Tom  hold  out  his  wages,  'count  of  Mis'  Gar 
ret  bein'  sick." 

"Well,  Tom's  man,  he's  sparkin'  Miss  Berenice.  So  he  put 
the  greenback  up  agin  Squatty  Robinson's  new  buggy  and 
harness,  first  throw  at  dice.  Squatty  bought  a  stack  of  al 
falfa  from  Lon " 

" That  tossed  the  dog,  that  worried  the  cat,  that  caught 

the  rat,  and  so  forth?"  intimated  Emil,  politely. 

"Anyway,"  George  persevered,  "along  towards  supper  time 
the  Foy  boys  that's  driftin'  on  the  Mormon  paid  it  to  Bill 


28S  WEST    IS    WEST 

McCall  for  last  winter's  beef.  Mac  got  four  broncos  from 
Nate  for  it — pick  'em  anywhere  on  the  range.  Nate  was 
now  so  plumb  affluent  that  he  loaned  it  to  Jimmy  Dodds 
There  bein'  no  change,  Jimmy  just  gave  it  to  the  four  men 
on  the  night-shift.  They  put  their  heads  together  and  handed 
it  over  to  Mis'  Hagan  on  their  board  bill.  Mrs.  Hagan's 
that  tickled  she  puts  Bobby  on  burro  and  surprises  me  with 
it — the  same  old  bill  with  a  red  ink-blot  on  it — and  I  hereby 
returns  the  same  to  you  with  my  compliments.  Much  obliged 
for  the  loan." 

"Don't  mention  it,"  said  Emil,  pocketing  the  bill.  "Whit- 
ly's  lighting  up.  Guess  the  boys  are  going  in." 

The  crowd  was  slowly  sauntering  by,  deep  in  conversation. 

"Really,  I  don't  know,"  said  Cal  to  Sewall  as  they  passed. 
"George,  he  speaks  pretty  good  Spanish.  George,  what  does 
'que  tomav  ustedes?'  mean?" 

"What  will  you  have?"  translated  the  unsuspecting  George. 
The  assembly,  turning  briskly  to  the  saloon,  answered  in  joy 
ful  chorus: 

"Beer!" 

And  Cal  squealed  like  a  pig. 

Alone  that  night,  Emil  stirred  up  the  fire,  took  out  the 
bill  that  had  so  prospered  Son  Todos,  looked  it  over  care 
fully,  then  sadly  held  it  to  the  flame. 

"Pity  it's  counterfeit!"  he  said.  "I  wonder,  now,  if  all 
them  debts  is  squared  up  honest?" 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

"IP  ANTONY  BE  WELL  REMEMBERED  YET** 

"HELLO,  you!  Long  time  no  see.  Have  a  cigar/'  said 
Whitly. 

"Same  right  back  at  you.     Thanks." 

Whitly  pushed  out  a  chair.  "Rest  your  feet.  What  can 
I  do  for  you?" 

"Well,"  said  Emil,  "one  of  your  freighters  had  a  horse  go 
lame  on  him  awhile  back  and  I  let  him  have  one  of  mine  to 
drive  home." 

"Yes.     A  churnhead.     Thanks.     How  much?'* 

"Could  you  let  me  have  another  one  now?"  said  Emil.  "I 
came  over  on  the  stage  and  brought  my  saddle  in  the  boot. 
If  you  can  fit  me  out,  I'll  ride  on  down  the  range  a  spell." 

"What  kind  of  a  horse  do  you  want?" 

"Oh,  any  kind,  so  long  as  his  name  is  Pussyfoot;  a  gentle 
one  and  a  good  saddler." 

Whitly  put  his  hands  to  his  chair  arms  and  hoisted  himself 
up,  grunting.  He  was  a  short,  fat  man  with  a  circular  face — 
a  shrewd  and  pleasant  face  for  all  that.  He  waddled  to  the 
back  door,  and  called  into  the  courtyard. 

"Bill,  oh  Bill!  You  go  and  hunt  up  the  orneriest  horse 
you  can  find  and  name  him  Pussyfoot.  Bring  him  here  for 
James,  and  have  the  bill  sent  to  me." 

He  let  himself  down  in  his  chair  by  reversing  the  hoist 
ing  process,  and  leaned  forward,  hands  on  knees.  "Well? 
You  didn't  come  over  here  to  get  a  horse  or  the  price  of 
one.  What's  on  your  mind?" 

"Railroad  coming  through/'  said  Emil. 

"Wolf!  Wolf!" 

"But  there  was  a  wolf,  sure  enough — don't  you  remem 
ber?  And  there's  a  wolf  now." 

287 


288  WEST    IS   WEST 

"Been  hearing  about  that  railroad  any  time  these  twenty- 
five  years,"  said  Whitly,  briskly.  "Talk's  cheap." 

"Well,"  said  Emil,  simply.  "Dick  says  he's  going  to  build 
it.  I  reckon  that  settles  it." 

"Who's  Dick?" 

"Friend  of  mine." 

"Money?" 

"Brains." 

"If  you're  sure  of  that — well,  that  makes  it  different,"  ad 
mitted  Whitly.  "What's  the  idea?" 

"Same  old  thing.  The  love  of  women  is  the  root  of  all 
evil.  There's  a  girl  going  to  marry  Dick,"  explained  Emil. 
"Fine  upstanding  wench  she  is,  too — snapping  black  eyes — 
full  of  the  Old  Harry.  Old  J.  C.  Armstrong's  niece,  she  is, 
Judith  Elliott — oodles  of  money.  And  Dick,  he's  got  a  silly 
idea  that  he  mustn't  marry  her — just  because  of  that  money — 
till  he  has  made  a  pile  himself.  I  tried  to  tell  him  that  was 
all  foolishness,  but  I  couldn't  talk  him  out  of  it.  So  he's 
going  to  build  that  railroad.'" 

"Take  your  time,  now,"  said  Whitly.  "I  got  nothing  in 
the  world  to  do  but  squat  around  and  enjoy  your  conversa 
tion.  Go  it!  Say,  aint  you  never  going  to  grow  up?  Great 
big  overgrown  boy — that's  what  you  are!  I  can  relate  your 
final  prank  right  now."  Mr.  Whitly  waved  his  pudgy  fin 
gers  with  a  fine  oratorical  flourish  and  his  voice  took  on  the 
stagy  tone  of  one  who  quotes  emotionally.  "Mr.  James  kept 
his  gay  spirits  to  the  end.  His  last  remark  was  characteristic 
of  the  man.  "Is  my  tie  on  straight?"  said  Mr.  James  to  the 
hangman,  and  looked  down  his  nose.  We  shall  miss  his  chil 
dish  prattle.' — Say!  are  you  going  to  loosen  up?  Maybe  you 
want  me  to  ask  questions.  Is  that  it?  All  right,  then;  who 
is  this  Dick-man  going  to  get  to  put  up  the  money  for  the 
railroad?  Nate  Logan,  maybe?" 

"Not  such  a  bad  guess.  Nate  is  to  be  allowed  to  put  on 
the  finishing  touches,  but  he  won't  get  the  chance  to  build 
the  road,"  said  Emil.  "Dick  got  his  idea  the  same  place 
you  got  that  'Wolf!  Wolf!'  story — from  old  John  Henry 
^Esop.  Remember  the  yarn  about  the  quail  in  the  farmer's 
wheat,  and  what  the  farmer  said  to  his  boys?" 

"Yep.     Neighbors  was  going  to  come  to  help  reap.     'No 


IF  ANTHONY  BE   REMEMBERED     289 

hurry/  says  old  mother  quail.     Then  his  kinnery  was  comin' 
to  help.     'No  hurry,'  said  mamma  quail." 

"That's  the  yarn/  '  said  Emil.  "And  the  farmer  says, 
'Boys,  we  will  now  cradle  this  wheat/  'Let's  go!'  says  the 
wise  old  quail.  That  is  Dick's  idea.  We're  going  to  build 
this  railroad  ourselves — let's  go!  Dick  picked  my  brains  of 
all  the  information  I  had  and  mulled  it  over  in  his  head  a 
spell.  Then  he  called  us  all  together  and  broke  the  news. 
He  has  the  full  confidence  of  everyone  in  San  Clemente,  man, 
woman,  chick  and  child — on  account  of  a  stunt  he  pulled  off 
about  ten  days  ago.  So  we  was  ready  to  hark  and  heed " 

"Hold  on !"  interposed  Whitley.  "This  Dick — is  he  young 
Rainboldt,  that  busted  the  strikebreakers?  the  fellow  with 
brains  enough  to  think  instead  of  shooting?" 

"Uh,  huh.     That's  Dick." 

"Better  and  better.  Shooting  don't  get  you  anywheres. 
Listen!"  He  held  a  cupped  fist  hard  to  his  ear.  "I  thought 
I  heard  the  whistle  blow!  Go  on,  now — tell  it  to  me/' 

"You  keep  still,  then,"  said  Emil  indignantly.  "You  talk 
too  much,  Tom.  I  am  the  orator  of  the  day — sabe?  Here's 
the  plan.  We  all  buy  stock  with  money  or  work.  Right 
smart  of  money  in  Chatauqua,  and  the  V  Cross  T  is  in  it, 
and  all  the  ranchers  and  all  the  mining  companies.  We  do 
our  own  grafting  and  holdup  stuff:  we  let  our  own  contracts 
to  ourselves.  Grab  and  graft  on  right-of-way  is  what  has 
always  scared  money  away  when  it  was  circling  about  and 
ready  to  light.  Old  Pat  Breen  and  me,  we  had  claims  filed 
all  across  San  Clemente  Gap.  We  throwed  them  in  the  pool, 
cheap  for  stock.  The  railroad  company — that's  San  Cle 
mente,  rich  man,  poor  man,  beggar  man,  storekeeper — has 
laid  out  a  townsite  east  of  the  Gap,  along  where  me  and 
the  rest  of  the  little  cowmen  have  strung  our  row  of  shacks — 
that's  to  be  the  new  town  of  Morningside — everybody  in  on 
the  ground  floor.  The  stage  line  throws  in  their  wells." 

"That's  the  idea,"  said  Whitly,  catching  fire.  "A  town 
like  San  Clemente  can  do  a  heap,  all  pulling  together.  It's 
when  one  half  pulls  forward  and  the  other  pulls  back  that 
you  don't  get  anywhere.  We'll  help,  of  course — and  Datil 
and  Luna.  We'll  all  benefit.  Count  on  me  to  the  last  dime. 
You  want  to  brace  the  Morgans,  too.  Old  Steelfoot  don't 


290  WEST    IS    WEST 

know  how  much  money  he  has  got.    What's  the  matter  now, 
you  old  fool?     What  you  lookin'  down  your  nose  for?" 

"Am  I  telling  this  story,  or  are  you?"  said  Emil  coldly. 
"I  am?  Very  well,  then,  I  will  proceed.  That  is  all  thought 
out  and  discounted — and  a  good  deal  further.  You  are  elected 
for  one  of  the  directors:  you  are  to  direct  San  Todos.  Or 
ganize  your  men  and  teams  for  scraping  up  the  road  bed: 
have  the  stay-at-homes  raise  grain  and  alfalfa  a-plenty.  We 
want  a  petition  signed  by  every  man-jack  of  you.  Old  J.  C. 
and  Wildcat,  they're  both  in  Santa  Fe,  squeezing  a  franchise 
from  the  legislature,  without  any  business  methods  whatever: 
just  a  demonstration — no  franchise,  no  votes.  And  we  want 
your  personal  pressure  on  the  law-makers — heavy. 

"Lone  Miller  and  Billy  Murray  and  another  man,  they've 
got  a  coal  mine  out  beyond  San  Quentin;  they  turned  it  into 
the  railroad  company,  cheap  for  stock." 

"San  Quentin?  Why,  the  railroad  will  go  away  north  of 
there — through  the  Datil  pass.  Won't  it?" 

"No  sir-ee-bob!  The  railroad  goes  mighty  near  due  west 
from  Ridgepole  to  the  head  waters  of  the  Gila,  saving  a  hun 
dred  miles  over  the  Datil  route.  It  goes  through  Barnaby 
Bright  Pass,  with  one  short  tunnel,  two  hundred  yards,  to  give 
a  straight  shoot  into  the  main  canon  above  the  two  big  bends. 
Canon  of  Barnaby  Bright  just  needs  sweeping  out  and  dust 
ing  a  little,  and  there's  your  ready-made  tunnel,  that  would 
ha'  cost  how  many  millions  to  make?  Yessir.  And  the  fel 
low  that  had  it  grabbed  turned  the  right-of-way  in  to  the 
general  pool,  cheap  for  stock:  just  about  one-tenth  of  what 
it  was  worth.  From  there  west,  well  let  Nate  Logan  man 
age.  We  made  him  first  Vice-President  and  General  Mana 
ger  and  Purchasing  Agent.  He  don't  know  it  yet.  I'm  go 
ing  to  sidle  down  to  the  N-8  ranch  and  tell  him  about  it. 
Logan's  been  snooping  about  out  west,  around  the  Arizona 
line,  all  summer.  Reckon  he's  been  hunting  the  best  way 
into  the  headwaters  of  the  Gila.  They're  expecting  him  back 
right  soon.  He'll  be  real  surprised  to  find  Barnaby  Bright 
grabbed  up,  and  his  railroad  a-building.  After  I  break  the 
news  to  him,  I'll  go  on  down  the  range  and  gather  in  the 
Morgans  and  the  Fuentes  crowd.  We  want  to  make  it 
unanimous." 


IF  ANTHONY  BE   REMEMBERED     291 

"Only  room  in  my  old  fat  head  for  one  idea  at  a  time," 
grumbled  Whitly.  "I  had  my  mind  set  on  Datil  Pass,  seeing 
it  was  big  and  wide  and  easy.  Never  once  thought  of  using 
Barnaby  Bright.  Who  grabbed  it  up?" 

"Me/'  said  Emil.  "I  homesteaded  it  last  spring,  before  the 
round-up  started.  Now,  I'll  go  build  me  a  house,  and  hold 
it  down  till  the  railroad  gets  a  franchise." 

"You  old  fox !     You're  the  one  that  got  this  up." 

"No,"  said  Emil.  "I  didn't.  All  I  had  was  an  idea.  Dick, 
he's  got  the  punch.  I  day-dreamed  around  a  little,  mildly  in 
terested  and  all  that.  Dick  did  it. 

"He's  got  everything  ciphered  out  finer  than  a  gnat's  tooth. 
First  we  run  a  three-mile  spur  from  Ridgepole  up  the  moun 
tain  to  where  we  can  cut  our  own  tie-timber,  and  so  will  haul 
all  our  ties  by  rail  except  them  first  three  miles.  Across 
Magdalena  plain  we  throw  together  the  cheapest,  dinkiest 
little  road-bed  in  the  world — one  straight  tangent  to  San 
Clemente  Gap.  Through  the  Gap  we  build  good.  Then  a 
spur  up  to  Pinetop,  and  our  own  saw-mill.  From  then  on, 
lumber  and  ore  to  haul  out,  and  rails  back;  we'll  take  our 
time  building  across  Malibu  Flat,  cutting  our  own  ties  o: 
Pinetop;  we'll  make  the  road  build  itself  from  San  Clemente 
to  Barnaby  Bright.  Logan,  or  anyone  that  wants  to,  can 
build  on  west  from  there.  But  we're  going  to  keep  this  link 
of  the  road  in  our  own  hands.  If  we  get  any  through  freight, 
all  right.  If  they  want  to  play  funny  with  us,  we'll  wait. 
All  settled  except  the  name.  C.  C.  and  C.  is  the  best  we've 
thought  of  yet — Cattle,  Copper  and  California." 

"Well?"  said  Whitly. 

"Well,  what?" 

"That's  what  I'm  asking  you.  What  did  you  want  to  see 
me  about?  It  wasn't  to  spring  your  home-made  railroad  on 
me.  You  could  have  told  me  all  that  by  letter,  just  as  well." 

"Better,"  said  Emil. 

"Better.  No  interruptions.  Such  being  the  case,  let's  have 
it.  Been  robbin'  a  bank?" 

"Well,  then,  I'll  tell  you,"  said  Emil.  "But  you're  to 
keep  it  under  your  hat." 

"Don't  tell  where  you  don't  trust,"  said  Whitly,  stiffly. 

"Keep  it  on,  Tommy — keep   it  on!      I   trust  you.      But  I 


292  WEST    IS    WEST 

want  it  distinctly  understood  that  you  are  being  trusted.  Get 
that?  (Silly  old  fool,  aren't  you?)" 

Mr.  James  lowered  his  voice  to  add  the  last  remark  in  a 
confidential  aside:  the  inference  being  that  he  expected  the 
sage  and  philosophical  portion  of  Mr.  Whitly's  mind  to  join 
in  disapproval  of  such  weakness.  And  Mr.  Whitly  came  up 
to-  expectations. 

"Guess  I  am,"  he  agreed  meekly  and  cheerfully.  "Look 
over  it  this  time,  will  you?  All  set.  Turn  your  wolf  loose. 
Proceed.  Go  on." 

But  Emil  hesitated.  For  once  bis  ready  tongue  was  at  a 
loss  for  words:  his  eye  vv tendered  about  the  room  and,  finding 
no  help  there,  took  counsel  with  his  nose. 

"Yes,  yes?"  prompted  Whitly,  leaning  eagerly,  hands  on 
knees.  "How  thrilling!  Root  of  all  evil,  I  think  you  said. — 
Don't  wade  in,  boy.  Shut  your  eyes  and  jump!  Make  a 
splash !" 

Emil  took  the  advice  and  plunged  desperately.  "You  know 
there  was  a  double  hanging  in  Saragossa  last  week?" 

"Keough  and  Tait?     Yes.     Good  riddance." 

"Tom  Whitly,  both  of  those  men  were  innocent!  Oh,  you 
needn't  stare:  it's  true.  But  it  is  not  important.  No  one 
knows  it  but  you  and  me.  Walter  Keough  murdered  old  Gib 
son  for  his  roll  of  steer-money  and  sent  Tait  over  to  get 
hanged  for  it.  It  was  Tait  who  murdered  poor  old  Van  and 
not  Keough.  Tait  told  me  all  about  it.  'I  got  a  hanging  a- 
coming  to  me,  and  I'd  just  as  lief  hang  for  the  wrong  man 
as  the  right  one,'  says  he  to  me.  'So  I  don't  make  no  hol 
ler.  Keough  might  get  clear  if  he  was  standing  trial  for 
Gibson.  But  he  can't  get  clear  of  murdering  his  own  pard- 
ner.  He's  hung  himself.  I'm  satisfied:  let  her  go  as  she 
lays/  Keough  lost  his  nerve;  mind  unhinged  and  sagging. 
He  tried  to  shape  up  a  story,  but  here  was  a  case  where  the 
truth  would  do  no  good,  and  his  lies  were  too  steep:  no  one 
paid  the  slightest  attention  to  him,  along  at  the  last:  he  was 
fair  crazy  with  terror."  Again  Emil  hesitated  and  groped 
for  words. 

"Leading  up  to  say?"  prompted  Whitly. 

"Yes.  Tait  told  me  something  else,  before  he  died.  About 
.  .  .  the  killing  of  Clay  Mundy.  And  he  said  you  could 


IF  ANTHONY  BE    REMEMBERED    293 

tell  me  where  to  find  a  man  who  could  verify  his  words. 
There  were  three  men  in  it.  One  of  them,  Hamerick,  has 
never  been  heard  of  since.  But  the  third  man  was  a  cowboy 
named  Joe  Hanson,  who  used  to  live  here." 

Whitly's  countenance  changed. 

"Hanson  is  dead,  Emil.  He  died  a  year  ago,  in  Colorado. 
But  Tait  told  you  the  truth.  I  know  the  story.  Hanson's 
horse  fell  on  him,  a  while  back,  and  he  thought  he  was  dying. 
He  was  in  dreadful  misery.  I  was  sitting  up  with  him  and 
he  told  me.  It  seems  that  Mundy  hired  these  three  men " 

"I've  heard  it  once.  It  is  a  shameful  story.  Don't  put  it 
in  words,"  said  Emil.  "And,  there  is  one  who  must  never 
hear  it.  It  is  a  story  that  must  die  with  us  two." 

Whitly  mused  a  little.  "No,  you  couldn't  tell  her — con- 
siderin'.  But  isn't  it  a  little  rough  on  the  man  McGregor? 
He  carries  the  blame — poor  old  chap!  And  only  you  and 
me  that  knows !"  The  fat  old  man's  voice  was  low  and  wist 
ful.  "I  have  felt  it  laid  upon  me  to  tell  her.  But  it  wasn't 
a  thing  you  could  write.  And  then  again,  I  felt  that  I 
oughtn't.  It  is  a  hard  case." 

But  Emil's  glance  was  high,  and  Emil's  voice  rose  clear 
and  untroubled.  "McGregor  wouldn't  mind.  From  what  I 
can  learn  of  the  man,  it  is  what  he  would  have  wished.  He 
would  want  to  spare  her.  Why,  there  are  two  of  us  who 
will  never  forget  him:  he  has  love  and  honor  in  his  grave: 
what  more  could  the  man  want?  Don't  you  fret,  Tommy. 
It's  all  right — or  else  this  is  no  fit  place  for  any  of  us.  Sure! 
Wherever  he  is,  all  is  well  with  old  Sandy  McGregor!" 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE    ARBITRATOR 

SOUTH  WELL  is  the  N-8  home  ranch.  It  lies  on  the  bare 
plain,  two  miles  out  from  the  southern  heights  of  the  Hueco. 
Against  that  background  of  mountain  and  broad  plain,  the 
buildings  and  corrals,  and  even  the  tall  windmill  tower,  are 
dwarfed  to  insignificance;  the  long  house  is  a  dropped  dom 
ino,  the  great  gateposts  are  matches,  the  windmill  is  a  slen 
der  pencil  against  the  sky. 

Emil  James  drew  rein  at  the  water-pen  gate  and  stared 
toward  the  house. 

"What  the  Billy-hell  has  happened  now?"  he  demanded. 
"Lo,  Emil!     Fall  off!" 

"No,  I'm  goin'  right  on,"  said  Emil,  "but  I  ask  you  again, 
what's  that  up  by  the  house?  I  don't  seem  to  remember  any 
trees." 

The  Mag  mule,  blindfolded,  dragged  in  a  weary  round  at 
the  sweep  of  a  creaking  horse-power,  pumping  water  into 
the  big  tank:  the  windmill  was  becalmed.  Spike  cracked  his 
whip  at  the  Mag  mule,  followed  Emil's  glance,  and  grinned 
sheepishly. 

"Oh,  them?  Why,  those  infernal  boys — some  of  their 
doin's.  Mis'  Logan,  she  had  a  hankerin'  to  see  the  old  place 
where  Nate  made  his  first  start  in  life.  She  kep'  a  pesterin' 
me  to  bring  her  out.  So,  as  we  was  expectin'  Nate  back  most 
any  day,  I  carried  her  out  from  San  Clemente — her  and  the 
two  kids.  Got  in  yesterday.  And  while  I  was  gone,  Tom- 
Dick-Bob  and  the  Watterson  kid,  they  allowed  the  place 
looked  pretty  bare.  So  they  went  up  in  the  hills  and  fiut 
down  four  of  the  nicest  little  cedars  they  could  find,  and 

294 


THE    ARBITRATOR  295 

dug  holes  and  set  'em  up  like  posts — shade  trees,  for  this  day 
and  date  only.  'Twasn't  such  a  bad  idea,  nuther.  They  look 
right  nice,  and  she  won't  never  know  any  different.  If  Nate 
don't  show  up  tomorrow,  I'll  take  her  on  back  to  town." 

"Ya-as,"  said  Emil.     "How  does  John  Sayles  make  out?" 

"The  kid?  First  rate,"  said  Spike,  heartily.  "I'll  be  right 
sorry  to  see  him  go,  and  that's  a  fact." 

"Going  soon?" 

"Right  off.     Going  back  with  Nate." 

"Now,  that's  too  bad.     Where  is  he — up  to  the  house?" 

"Up  in  the  hills  for  a  horse-ride  with  Mis'  Logan  and  the 
two  kids — him  and  Tom-Dick-Bob.  That's  five  kids  in  all." 

"Me,  I  lay  over  then,  to  see  John  Sayles.  Not  but  what 
he'll  be  back  here  some  day." 

"Let's  go  up  to  the  house  and  stir  up  some  dinner,"  said 
Spike.  "Mag,  she  can  be  a-pumpin'." 

"This  new  man,  .Lute  Evans,  that  Wildcat  Thompson 
smuggled  in — Crooknose,  Steve  calls  him — why,  he  seems  like 
a  pretty  fair  average  sort  of  a  man,"  said  Spike.  "He'll 
do  to  take  along." 

"I  only  saw  him  once,  but  I  sure  liked  his  Iqpks,"  said  Emil. 
"And  El  Paso  thinks  well  of  him.  Is  holding  forth  at 
Fuentes  ?" 

"He  was.  He's  staying  with  the  Morgans  now.  You  and 
Wildcat  are  going  to  have  it  easier,  from  this  on,"  said  Spike. 
"Crooknose,  he'll  take  part  of  the  responsibility  of  ^unnin* 
things." 

"What  has  he  been  up  to  now?" 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you.  Jim  Webb  and  the  Morgans  have 
moved  to  their  new  well  under  Red  Mesa — know  that? 
Yessir:  got  a  gang  of  Mexicans  out  from  Luna  and  slapped 
up  a  big  stone  house  quicker  than  you  could  say  Scat.  And 
awhile  ago  they  shoved  a  big  bunch  of  cattle  up  to  the  new 
well — about  two  thousand  head." 

"And  the  upshot  of  that/'  said  Emil,  "will  be  trouble." 

"Well,  I  guess  yes.     I  put  off  down  there  to  head  it  off. 

Morgan  stuff  all  drifting  up  to  Barnaby  Bright  water-holes. 

Don  Timeoteo  was  one  mad  old  man.     Young  Tim  and  the 

bunch  was  just  bringin'   their  sheep  down   from  the  moun- 


296  WEST    IS    WEST 

tains.  They  had  sharpened  up  all  their  old  rifles  and  was 
fixin'  to  run  them  sheep  in  the  country  between  Barnaby 
Bright  and  the  new  Morgan  well — breathin'  fire  and  slaugh 
ter.  Nobody  would  listen  to  a  word  of  reason.  So  I  went 
on  down  to  the  Morgans. 

"Well,  sir,  as  I  got  off  my  horse,  them  cussed  fools  piled 
onto  me,  and  took  my  gun,  led  me  up  to  the  house  and  kept 
me  under  herd.  Wouldn't  let  me  say  a  word.  They  was  sure 
fixin'  for  war.  Fuentes  would  sheep  them  out,  hey?  They'd 
show  Fuentes  a  thing  before  morning!  Zip!  Zowie!  They 
had  sent  back  to  Mockingbird  for  Tank  Lane  and  the  two 
oldest  Morgan  boys  and  Bat  Wilson:  they  was  waitin'  for 
them  to  come.  Me^  Spike  Gibson,  they  was  going  to  tie  up 
hand  and  foot  before  they  started. — And  here  comes  Mister 
Crooknose,  slouchin'  along  down  the  trail,  with  one  leg  curled 
round  the  horn  of  the  saddle. 

"Well,  sir,  half  a  dozen  guns  threw  down  on  him  at  the 
gate.  He  stuck  up  his  hands,  and  they  brought  him  in." 

"'Now,  what's  the  excite?'  he  says,  pleasant,  as  they 
hustled  him  to  a  chair.  'I  come  down  to  give  you  a  friendly 
tip.  Don't  seem  like  you  appreciate  it.  I  can  show  you  how 
to  keep  the  sheep  back  without  any  trouble.' 

Old  Steelfoot  is  a  nice  old  man  and  he  has  a  powerful  gift 
of  statement.  It  took  him  all  of  ten  minutes  to  explain  how 
he  proposed  to  move  the  sheep,  and  what  he  thought  about 
meddlesome  people.  I  gathered  that  he  maybe  meant  some 
of  that  for  me.  He's  mighty  interestin'  talker.  Jim  Webb 
makes  a  few  remarks,  too,  but  he  wasn't  in  it  with  the  old 
man. 

"Crooknose,  he  listened,  polite  and  proper:  but  after  awhile 
he  held  up  his  hand.  'Here,  I  want  to  say  some  talk,'  he 
says.  'Somebody  stake  me  to  a  smoke.'  So  Webb  handed 
him  over  the  makin's.  'I  have  a  proposition  to  make  that 
you'll  fall  right  in  with,  it's  that  reasonable/  says  Crook- 
nose,  as  he  finished  curlin'  a  cig.  He  patted  his  vest  pockets, 
brisk.  'Now,  where  did  I  put  that?'  he  says.  'Oh,  yes!'  He 
stuck  the  cigarette  in  mouth;  he  took  off  his  hat,  easy  and 
careless,  reached  into  it,  and  stuck  a  little  derringer  up 
against  Steelfoot's  ear.  'Here  it  is !'  says  he. 

"Nobody   moved.      He   slipped    Steelfoot's    gun    from    the 


THE    ARBITRATOR  297 

holster  and  trained  it  on  Webb.  'That  will  do  nicely,'  says 
he,  getting  Webb's  gun  and  tucking  the  derringer  away.  'I 
observe  with  pleasure  that  you  are  all  gentlemen  of  intelli 
gence.  I  am  not  given  to  levity,  and  I  am  in  too  deep  to 
draw  back.  We  will  now  ride  up  to  Fuentes  and  negotiate 
a  treaty.  Mr.  Gibson,  you  may  come  along  as  witness/ 

"Old  Steelfoot  found  his  voice.  'Hold  on,  here!'  he  says. 
'You've  got  me  and  Jim.  No  dispute  about  that.  Anybody 
with  nerve  to  hold  me  up  in  a  roomful  of  Morgans  will  go 
through  with  the  play.  So  if  you  have  any  treaty  to  spring 
on  us  that  is  even  halfway  fair,  we'll  agree.  But  you'll  never 
take  me  to  Fuentes  as  a  prisoner.  I'll  die  in  my  tracks  first. 
That  part  is  settled.  If  you've  got  a  white  man's  proposition, 
trot  it  out/ 

"  'Make  this  your  home  ranch  and  the  north  limit  of  your 
range/  says  the  peacemaker.  'Run  a  drift  fence  from  Red 
Mesa  out  to  the  low  country,  twenty  miles  or  so.  The  Fuentes 
people  will  build  half.  Then  you  can  run  your  saddle  horses 
north  of  the  drift  fence,  where  the  grass  is  best,  letting  'em 
water  here  or  at  Barnaby  Bright.  But  keep  your  cattle  south/ 

"  'We'll  do  that/  said  Steelfoot. 

"  'All  right,  then — here's  your  guns/  says  Crooknose — and 
damn  my  eyes  if  he  didn't  hand  them  guns  over.  H|B  sat| 
himself  down  as  cool  as  Cuffy,  and  lit  that  cigarette.  The 
Morgans  are  all  right.  They're  square.  They  never  thought 
of  playing  crooked  on  him. 

"  'Will  old  Timeteo  agree  to  this  ?'  says  Webb.  'Did  he 
send  you  to  make  that  proposition?' — Crooknose  puffs  a  little 
before  he  answers.  'Why  no/  he  says.  'He  didn't.  I  studied 
that  up  myself.  But  I  think  hell  agree  all  right/ 

"  'Well,  you  hike  along  to  Fuentes  and  put  it  up  to  him/ 
said  Steelfoot.  'We'll  agree  to  them  terms  if  he  will.  And 
we'll  not  bother  the  sheep  till  you  get  back/ 

"  'You'd  better  send  Gibson,  I  reckon/  says  the  peace 
maker.  'The  old  Don  don't  like  me  much.  He  bawled  me 
out  this  A.  M.  because  I  wouldn't  go  along  with  his  fight 
ing  men — fairly  showed  me  the  door.  That  reminds  me. 
They  had  as  nice  a  little  ambuscade  laid  as  ever  you  saw. 
If  you  had  got  out  after  the  sheep,  they'd  have  wiped  you  out 
to  the  last  man.  But  old  Don  Timoteo  will  agree  to  these 


298  WEST    IS    WEST 

terms,  I  think:  especially  as  they  didn't  come  from  you  on  the 
one  hand,  and  also  because  he  didn't  have  to  make  the  first 
advances,  either.  They're  my  terms,  and  I  think  the  old  gen 
tleman  will  fall  in  with  'em. — You  see,  I've  got  young  Tim 
staked  and  hog-tied,  out  in  the  brush.  I  must  go  see  to  him, 
too.  I  want  some  grub  and  water  for  him.  The  old  man  sets 
a  heap  of  store  by  young  Tim:  he'll  sign  your  treaty.  After 
wards,  I'd  like  to  stick  around  with  you  boys  awhile,  if  you 
don't  mind:  I  don't  think  they  want  me  at  Fuentes  now.  And 
I'm  just  getting  over  being  shot  up  a  lot,  so  I'm  not  strong 
enough  to  work  yet.  But  I  might  come  in  handy  as  an  arbi 
trator,  or  something.' 

"Well,  sir — it  worked!  They're  building  the  fence  now. 
Crooknose  is  staying  with  the  Morgans,  riding  around  and 
getting  strong.  Old  Morgan  likes  him.  So  does  Bennie.  He 
stands  ace-high  with  her,  'cause  Bonnie  is  strong  for  no  more 
war.  They  ride  together  a  heap.  Can't  say  that  Webb  like 
him:  I  think  maybe  he's  settin'  the  pace  for  Webb.  Blessed 
are  the  pacemakers." 

"Then  you  think  you'll  not  be  in  town  by  Saturday,  Mr. 
Jones-?"  asked  John  Sayles. 

"Nope.  Going  to  hurl  up  a  shack  on  my  little  old  home 
stead,  now.  I'll  get  me  a  man  and  a  team  from  Fuentes  to 
help  me,  and  the  rest  of  the  oulnf,  grub  and  stuff.  I  won't 
be  in  for  maybe  two  weeks." 

"Well,  good  luck,  then!"  said  John  Sayles.  "By  the  time 
you  get  it  I'll  have  a  letter  there  awaiting  for  you,  from 
Baltimore." 

"Here — hold  on!"  said  Emil.  "You've  not  left  this  coun 
try  yet.  You're  going  too  fast.  That  is  the  lesson  for  next 
July." 

John  Sayks  stared  at  him.  "How  did  you  ever  happen  to 
pick  that  up?"  he  demanded,  curiously. 

"Eh?  Pick  what  up?  Oh,  I  see!  Why,  that's  from  an 
old  song: 

'Where  has  he  got  to?     Tell  him  not  to'! 

All  of  the  scholars  who  hear  him,  cry. 
'That's  the  lesson  for,  lesson  for,  I  sson  for, 


THE    ARBITRATOR  299 

That  is  the  lesson  for  next  July!' 

Why?     What  about  it?" 

"Nothing.  Only  it  is  what  they  sing  in  one  of  the  old 
English  schools — Harrow  or  Eton,  I've  forgotten  which.  It 
seemed  so  devilish  queer  to  hear  it,  out  here." 

"Oh,  like  that?  Well,  it's  this  way:  I  was  not  always  thus, 
the  savage  chief  of  yet  more  savage  men.  My  grandsire 
came  from  Wilmington,  North  Carolina,  where  the  family  was 
then  considered  some  pumpkins.  So  Grandad  went  to  school 
in  England.  That's  how  it  happens  that  I  can  tell  you  what 
school  sings  that  little  old  song:  Harrow." 

Mrs.  Logan  came  to  the  door,  with  Kinks  clinging  to  her 
skirt.  "But  Mr.  James,"  she  said,  "Nate  wrote  that  he  would 
surely  start  east  next  Saturday,  and  John  goes  with  us.  I 
was  in  here  making  Bob  wash  his  face,  and  I  couldn't  help 
hearing." 

"You  see,  ma'am,  it's  like  this,"  said  Emil.  "Nate  thinks 
he's  going.  But  San  Clemente  thinks  right  well  of  Nate, 
him  bein'  a  boy  here  and  all — and  they're  fixin'  up  a  sur 
prise  for  him — slight  token  of  esteem  and  respect.  And  I 
judge  maybe  he'll  stay  a  while  longer.  I  won't  spoil  it  by 
telling.  But,  if  I  was  you,  ma'am,  I'd  wait  out  here  and 
go  in  with  Nate,  so  you'll  be  surprised  along  with  him.  The 
boys  will  show  you  a  good  time  while  you're  waiting — won't 
you,  boys?" 

"Sure,"  said  Tom — Dick — Bob:  and  exchanged  a  guilty 
glance  with  John  Sayles. 

"I'll  stay,  then,  since  you  advise  it,"  said  Mrs.  Logan. 
"Kinks  was  rebellious  at  the  idea  of  going,  anyway.  She 
wants  to  see  her  papa." 

"I  made  a  swing  for  Kinks  just  now,  under  the  trees,"  said 
Emil.  "And  that  reminds  me — those  trees  are  sure  mighty 
pretty,  but  the  heat  isn't  agreein'  with  'em.  They  look  droopy. 
They  need  a  big  rain.  I  hope  you'll  excuse  me  for  offerin' 
advice,  Mrs.  Logan — but  if  I  was  you,  I'd  have  the  boys 
tote  up  some  water  for  them  trees,  every  day.  They  won't 
mind.  Well,  goodby  all — I  got  to  be  movin'." 


CHAPTER  XLI 

THE    WITCH     HILLS 

EMIL  JAMES  was  building  a  house  on  his  claim  by  Bar- 
naby  Bright,  to  comply  with  the  very  moderate  requirements 
of  the  homestead  law.  It  was  to  be  a  moderate  house,  there 
fore,  and  Emil  worked  moderately.  He  was  no  woodsman; 
nor  was  Charlie  Stewart,  who  was  helping  him.  Their  hands 
were  little  trained  to  other  tools  than  rope  or  rifle,  but  they 
went  at  their  unaccustomed  toil  in  holiday  spirit;  if  they  did 
not  work  very  hard  at  it,  they  at  least  worked  joyfully. 

The  task  had  the  spice  of  novelty  about  it.  When  they 
had  painfully  hacked  down  a  cedar,  they  felt  the  same  flush 
and  pride  of  accomplishment  that  a  lumberman  might  achieve 
in  tying  down  his  first  steer. 

The  best  and  straightest  trees  were  in  the  half-mile  of 
rough  little  hills  directly  under  the  cliff,  between  the  new 
home-site  and  the  old  church  of  Barnaby  Bright.  In  resting 
spells,  the  two  men  looked  down  at  the  low  slopes  and  ridges 
beneath  them  to  see  how  the  railroad  should  best  curve  and 
clamber  to  reach  the  spot,  close  beside  the  new  house,  where 
it  should  pierce  the  cliff  behind,  the  last  barrier  on  the  long 
road  to  the  western  sea.  Once  beyond  Red  Mesa,  it  was 
down  hill  all  the  way  to  Yuma — six  hundred  miles.  This 
was  the  backbone  of  the  continent,  the  true  dividing  place, 
the  parting  of  the  waters;  the  rain  that  fell  on  Red  Mesa 
found  its  way  to  two  oceans. 

Fuentes  had  been  told  gently  of  the  new  railroad;  Fuentes 
had  girded  up  its  loins,  rejoicing;  had  planned  great  crops 
for  the  great  market  that  was  to  come  to  its  door.  Fuentes, 
at  Emil's  pointing  out,  was  to  try  for  artesian  water;  if  found, 
was  to  reap  the  benefit  picking  the  best  lands.  Land  is  op 
portunity.  It  needed  no  textbook  to  teach  Fuentes  that. 

800 


THE    WITCH    HILLS  301 

Charlie  Stewart  drove  the  team.  Emil,  with  the  Pussy 
foot  horse,  a  rope  to  the  saddlehorn,  and  a  stay-chain  to  pass 
around  the  cedar  posts — where  a  rope  would  fray  out  on  the 
sharp  rocks — snaked  the  posts  from  steeps  and  hollows  to 
where  Charlie  could  reach  them  with  his  wagon. 

It  was  pleasant  work.  The  smell  of  new-cut  cedar,  to 
gether  with  spicy  tang  of  bruised  herbs,  made  a  thing  to  be 
remembered,  a  thing  which  stimulated  the  imagination.  Emil 
saw  the  far  trains  come  and  go,  saw  the  road  curve  and  cling 
on  the  ridges  below  him,  saw  it  make  a  straight  and  shining 
line  across  the  desert. 

He  looked  around  at  the  little  cedared  hills  against  the 
cliff,  and  saw  there  a  busy  gateway  town.  It  was  a  cheerful 
thought:  Emil  sang  as  he  rode  back. 

"When  time  was  young  and  the  school  was  new, 
(King  James  had  painted  it  bright  and  blue)f 
In  sport  or  study,  in  grief  or  joy, 
St.  Joles  was  the  friend  of  the  lazy  boy. 
He  helped  when  the  lesson  at  noon  was  said, 
He  helped  when  the  Bishop  was  fast  in  bed; 
For  the  Bishop  of  course  was  master  then, 
And  Bishops  get  up  at  the  stroke  of  ten." 

He  dragged  another  load  of  posts  to  the  pile;  he  looked 
again  at  that  brave  town  of  pleasant  homes,  where  the  shad 
ows  of  afternoon  fell  fresh  and  cool  from  the  great  cliff; 
looked  closer,  and  saw  there  no  home-fire  of  his  own.  Yet 
it  was  his  own  homestead:  this  was  clearly  unjust.  He  lifted 
up  his  eyes  and  looked  out  across  the  desert  to  the  Witch 
Hills. 

The  Witch  Hills  shimmered  and  shook  back  the  sun;  they 
rose  and  sank  and  wavered,  they  scattered,  they  huddled  and 
rushed  together,  they  swirled  high  to  heaven,  a  portent;  they 
turned  themselves  to  Emil  then  and  reached  out,  and  danced 
and  beckoned  and  promised.  Emil  rode  back. 

"And  if  ever  a  lesson  provoked  a  doubt 
St.  Joles  his  Lexicon  helped  it  out; 
Perhaps  it  wasn't  in  page  or  print, 


302  WEST    IS    WEST 

But  it  hinted  a  probable  friendly  hint; 

And  often,  indeed,  if  I  must  confess, 

It  was  like  to  a  sort  of  a  kind  of  guess." 

"There,  old  Pussyfoot!"  said  Emil.  "This  is  your  last 
load. — Let's  go!" 

"No  laws  of  scholarship  harsh  and  quaint 
Could  ever  perplex  the  useful  Saint; 
No  trouble  of  mood  and  gender  come 
But  he  settled  the  rule  by  the  rul     of  thumb; 
You'd  toss  a  penny  and  surely  know 
The  way  the  genitive  case  would  go; 
For  at  tails  and  heads  he  was  clear  and  true, 
And  it  always  turned  up  one  of  the  two" 

He  took  off  the  chain,  he  began  coiling  up  his  rope. 

"O  then  King  James,  in  liis  wrath  and  ire, 
Degraded  Saint  Joles  to  Joles  Esquire;" — 

The  song  broke  short:  Emil  stood  motionless,  the  rope  half- 
coiled.  Below  him,  on  the  old  road  which  led  in  through  the 
doors  of  Saint  Barnaby  church,  two  rode  swiftly ;  Bennie  May 
Morgan  and  Crooknose  Evans. 

They  were  so  close  to  Emil  that  they  might  have  heard 
him.  They  looked  into  eacli  other's  eyes.  Once  indeed,  they 
looked  aside,  up  the  old  wagon-road  to  Fuentes.  They  did 
not  see  Emil,  in  plain  view  on  the  hill  above  them:  they  did 
not  see  the  swift  dust-cloud  that  followed  behind,  on  the  new 
trail  from  the  new  Morgan  well;  that  gained  on  them:  a 
dust-cloud  that  turned  up  the  pebbly  slope,  and  thinned  there, 
with  black  specks  shaping  through — ten  of  them,  twenty — 
furious  horsemen,  charging  fiercely  up  the  steeps  to  the  pass; 
the  wild  Morgans,  scarcely  two  miles  behind. — Unseeing,  un- 
hearing,  the  two  fugitives  rode  on;  their  horse-hoofs  clat 
tered  in  the  creek-bed;  they  spurred  through  the  gateway 
under  the  church  of  Barnaby  Bright. 

Emil  was  stone  on  the  hillside. — Boy  and  man,  his  eyes  had 
ever  sought  the  far  horizons,  wondering  what  lay  beyond. 


THE    WITCH   HILLS  303 

This  it  was  which  lay  beyond;  to  which  all  paths  had  turned 
since  the  first  toddling  of  his  baby  feet  in  the  dim  old  gar 
dens  of  San  Antonio.  The  long-stretching  perspective  of 
coming  years.,  dream-haunted,  misty,  enchanted,  all  faded  now 
and  blurred — then  cleared  away  and  left  him  face  to  face 
with  the  appointed  hour.  In  the  mid-dance  of  pulsing  life  it 
struck,  that  waiting  hour:  clear  and  high,  above  the  turmoil 
of  leaping  blood,  he  heard  it  call,  and  answered,  nothing 
doubting. 

His  gun  was  in  camp.  He  took  up  his  axe  and  plunged 
down  a  steep  foot-path  under  the  cliff,  through  trees  and 
brush.  He  came  to  the  pass;  in  the  deep,  dark  shadows,  he 
looked  up  at  the  church  of  Barnaby  Bright,  the  ancient  roof 
and  the  timeless  walls.  He  closed  the  gate  under  the  church; 
he  stood  with  a  foot  on  the  lowest  stair  of  the  church  steps 
and  leaned  on  his  axe,  waiting. 

A  thunder  of  hoofs  beat  on  his  ears:  shod  feet  striking 
fire  from  stones,  the  Morgans  whirled  into  the  narrow  strait. 
Webb  was  first :  Emil  swung  his  axe  and  shouted.  The  fright 
ened  horse  slid,  swerved  and  turned  back,  plunging.  A  shot 
went  wild  in  that  whirling  plunge,  an  axe  gleamed  up ;  part 
of  Webb's  hat  fluttered  to  the  ground.  Steelfoot  Morgan 
reined  aside,  throwing  his  horse  back  to  his  haunches. 

"I  have  no  gun,"  said  Emil  mildly.  "Jim,  you  couldn't 
see  that — it's  pretty  dark  here  till  you  get  used  to  it.  So 
I'll  excuse  you  this  time." 

"What  in   the   name   of  God !"   roared    Steelfoot,   but 

checked  at  Emil's  lifted  hand. 

"This  road  is  closed  for  the  day,"  said  Emil.  "Orders. 
Mine.  Unless  you  want  to  shoot  an  unarmed  man.  If  you 
do — shoot  and  be  damned!" 

Fierce  faces  gleamed  in  that  dusky  place,  there  was  a 
clamor  and  crash  of  wild  voices,  they  pressed  forward,  the 
Morgans  and  their  men;  a  phantasmagoria  of  sound  and  mo 
tion,  quivering,  threatening  to  plunge  and  over-ride,  together 
and  headlong.  Emil  stood  waiting,  axe  balanced.  Three 
late-comers  rode  into  the  canon  and  swelled  the  uproar:  one 
evil  face  that  Emil  knew — Travesy:  two  faces  he  did  not 
know. 

Then,  swift  as  a  dream,  the  babel  ceased:  that  wild  crew 


304  WEST    IS    WEST 

fell  silent,  drew  back,  turned  their  horses'  heads;  they  drove 
the  late-comers  before  them,  they  rode  back  down  the  canon, 
passed  the  bend,  vanished ! — What  Emil  did  not  know  was 
that  the  church  door  had  opened  softly  behind  him:  that  Ben- 
nie  May  stood  there,  and  looked  down  on  him. — The  dullest 
Morgan  could  not  mistake  what  her  eyes  said  as  she  looked 
down  on  this  man  who  held  the  gate  for  her.  They  stayed 
for  no  questioning.  Webb  rode  last,  slowly:  his  great  black 
head  drooped  as  he  rode.  Emil  stood  amazed.  The  echoes 
died  away. 

"It  was  Helen  Fuentes,"  said  Bennie  May,  clearly. 

The  axe  dropped  with  a  clatter:  Emil  turned  and  saw  her. 

"The  El  Paso  people  were  after  Mr.  Evans,"  said  Bennie 
May,  at  the  top  step.  "Billy  Murray  sent  word:  he  brought 
Helen  here  to  meet  us.  I  came  with  Mr.  Evans  to  represent 
womankind,  and  to  wish  her  good  luck." 

Emil  looked  up  at  her  dumbly.  She  came  down  to  the 
next  step. 

"Not  as  bridesmaid  exactly — but  that  was  the  general  effect. 
There's  no  priest  nearer  than  Luna.  They've  gone  on  to  be 
married  there.  Billy  went  with  them."  She  came  down 
slowly:  one  step  nearer  to  him.  "Helen  wanted  a  last  prayer 
here,  in  the  church  of  her  fathers." 

She  floated  nearer,  nearer;  she  was  on  the  last  step.  "Did 
you  see  the  Witch  Hills  to-day,  Emil?  They  were  never 
so  lovely." 

"Bennie !"  said  Emil  hoarsely.  He  held  out  his  quivering 
hands. 

"Let's  go!"  said  Bennie. 


(THE  END) 


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